Part Two: A Room with No Clocks
She swore she wouldn't return. She was ready to live her life and do everything she wanted to do without holding on to any regrets.
But grief doesn't follow logic, it follows silence and it follows pain. And pain she'd come to learn, always knows the way to the platform.
That night, the city had been loud with sirens, laughter and broken bottles, but inside her, there was only one sound: the memory of the train. If only she could take another ride, If only she could get another chance. Perhaps she would be able to pick up the pieces of her life and move on.
So at 12:09 a.m., she grabbed her coat.
By 12:11, she was at the corner.
And at 12:12 a.m., the doors opened.
She didn't hesitate this time. She didn't need to.
The moment her foot touched the velvet steps, the ache in her chest shifted. It didn't vanish, just... acknowledged.
That was the thing about the train: it never took the pain away.
It just gave it a room.
Tonight, there was only one carriage open.
Carriage No. 7.
The doors parted with a sigh, and she stepped inside.
The lighting was dim and soft. The space wasn't not warm or cold, it was just enough to see.
And ahead of her: a corridor of doors. Dozens or maybe hundreds.
Each door painted a different color, etched with names she didn't recognize.
She wandered.
Her fingers grazed names like:
"NATHANIEL, AGE 46"
"MS. GRANT'S FAILED PIANO AUDITION"
"THE SUNDAY SHE DIDN'T CALL HIM BACK"
She kept walking until she found her own.
It wasn't labeled with her name.
Just three words in neat silver script:
"A Room With No Clocks"
She stepped inside without fear or anxiety. This time she was expectant. Inside, it was quiet.
Walls painted ivory, sheer curtains billowing despite no wind.
Books stacked on the floor in uneven towers.
A typewriter on a table that looked like it had waited centuries to be used.
But the strangest part?
No clocks.
Not on the wall.
Not on her wrist.
Not even the train's familiar pulse of movement could be felt beneath her feet.
Time seemed to have stopped here.
Or maybe, it had never started.
She sat at the typewriter.
There was a note on the desk:
"WRITE IT. THE DREAM YOU GAVE UP ON."
Her hands hovered.
And just like that, she remembered:
The dream of writing a novel.
The one she told no one about.
The one she used to scribble in journals between shifts and heartbreaks.
The one she buried because it didn't "pay the bills."
Her fingers trembled.
Then she started to write:
"It started with a girl who saw invisible things…"
The carriage tilted slightly.
As if the train approved.
She wrote more, several pages of it. Words pouring out like ink from a wound finally allowed to bleed.
No one interrupted.
No pressure.
No deadlines... Just space.
She kept writing until she finished her book. After what seemed to have been days or weeks, she penned down the lest word of her epilogue. She looked up and saw her reflection in the window. She was not a day older. Not younger either.
Just... softer. More herself.
She stood, wandered to the far side of the room and, there it was.
A small wooden box.
Inside it was an hourglass.
It was empty though with a note beside it that read:
"Time is a tool. Not a verdict."
She left the room.
This time, the corridor of doors was gone.
Only one exit.
She walked through it and was back on the train.
Same velvet seats.
Same ambient hum.
But now, a warmth in her chest she hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope. The quiet, stubborn kind, the one that dares to believe in beginnings again.
As she sat, the boy with the silver backpack appeared again.
"Did you find what you needed?"
She smiled. "I think I remembered who I was before the world told me to hurry."
He nodded solemnly. "That's what the Room with No Clocks is for. The dreams you buried under 'maybe later.'"
"Is it always there?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Only when you're ready to believe it matters again."
Then he got up, disappearing into the next carriage like mist before morning.
The train slowed.
Another stop.
But not hers.
The sign outside read:
"PLATFORM OF UNSAID APOLOGIES"
She watched as a woman in a red coat stepped off the train holding a faded letter and a phone.
And then the train moved on.
Final Note
Time isn't our enemy. But we treat it like a thief, measuring our worth by clocks and calendars, rushing past the very dreams that make life tender and worth living.
The truth?
You're not late.
You're not lost.
You're just layered. You're just delayed.
Sometimes, what you need most is a room with no clocks, a space where expectation dies and possibility returns.
If you're reading this and there's a dream you shelved, an art you abandoned, a self you stopped showing up for. Take this as a sign to go back.
She's still there.
Waiting.
Writing and
Ready.