The Last Train Home The rain had been falling since afternoon, turning the streets into silver ribbons beneath the city lights. Arun stood alone on the platform, watching the clock above the station slowly approach midnight. He had missed the last three trains that evening. The station was almost empty, except for an old tea seller packing his things and a woman sitting quietly on a wooden bench, holding a small blue suitcase. When the final train arrived, the woman suddenly stood up. “Are you going to the city?” she asked. Arun nodded. “So am I.” They entered the same empty compartment. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Outside the window, the familiar streets disappeared into darkness as the train moved faster into the night. Then the woman opened her suitcase and took out an old photograph. “I haven't been home in twelve years,” she said. Arun looked at the photograph but said nothing. “My father passed away last week. I thought I had more time.” The train continued through the rain. Arun remembered his own father, who had called him that morning and asked when he would finally come home. For years, Arun had always answered, Soon. He took out his phone. “I'm going home tomorrow,” he said quietly. The woman smiled. “Sometimes,” she replied, “tomorrow is the most important day we have.” When the train finally reached the last station, the rain had stopped. For the first time in years, both of them walked toward home.