The map changed every day. Some stations only appeared once—moments tied to a feeling never repeated. Tickets were emotions pressed into paper. You couldn’t buy one. You could only earn it by remembering something you tried to forget.
Conductors With Eyes Like Yesterdays
They never spoke, only nodded. When they punched your ticket, it echoed like a heartbeat. Each punch chipped away something small—a hesitation, a name, a promise left unsaid. You never knew what you’d leave behind until it was gone.
Regret is the fuel of those who still believe in alternate endings.
Windows Showing Possible Futures
Outside, scenery rushed past—cities you might’ve built, lovers you might’ve met, the version of you that once said yes instead of no. Some passengers covered their eyes. Others watched in awe. Few made it all the way to the last stop.
