The shuffling of feet echoed through the desolate carriage. A weathered hand gripped the doorframe, Arnold’s raspy voice broke the silence. “Thank you, dear,” he murmured, sinking into the carriage seat's soft embrace.

“Your ticket?” the conductor asked, her voice gentle. Arnold’s trembling hand dug into his pockets, pulling out a golden ticket. The faded words “The Last Stop” shimmered, fragile in the dim light.

“Your name?” she queried again. Arnold blinked slowly, his voice a mere whisper. “Arnold Westbrook.” a sad smile flickered, before his gaze drifted away.

The train jolted, its rhythmic clatter lulling him into a drowsy haze. His body sagged into the seat, eyelids heavy, as time stretched. A sharp whistle jerked him awake. The train slowed beside the shore, and there, a boy— barefoot, sun-kissed, carefree— ran through the sand. His heart twisted as he watched the child he once was, untouched by time.

The train lurched, moving again, only to slow once more. Arnold’s breath caught. A young couple kissed beneath an arch of white lilies, their joy filled eyes frozen in time. The vision faded as the train pulled away, leaving a lump lodged in his throat.

His hands shook. “One more stop,” he thought, heart heavy.

The train slowed again. The conductor gently guided Arnold into a familiar, sterile hospital room. There, a withered man lay in bed, smiling faintly as his wife whispered goodbye. Tears streamed down her face, and the man’s gnarled hands wiped away any traces of her sadness. Arnold reached toward her, but the scene vanished, replaced by a towering staircase. Shakily, he took his final breath. The pain he once felt began to dissolve as he started to climb. His steps felt lighter, easier, as he transcended closer to the sun. Toward his Last Stop.