It began so quietly most people mistook it for nothing at all. A flicker of light across the grocery shelves where half the items were already missing. A faint vibration in the soles of her feet as she walked across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. The news anchor’s voice, bright and rehearsed, trying to smooth over the fraying edges of another crisis.
But she felt it. The hum beneath everything.
At first it was no louder than the buzz of a far-off generator. Barely enough to notice unless you were listening for it. But it was there, constant, steady, like the sound of an approaching train whose tracks no one else remembered.
People laughed about the shortages, turned them into jokes and memes. They stood in line for coffee and scrolled past footage of wildfires devouring towns like matchsticks, hurricanes drowning entire coastlines, soldiers stomping across foreign streets. They told themselves the world was still turning. Still safe. Still theirs.
But she couldn’t shake the sense that something massive was bearing down.
Her neighbor, old Mr. Harris, leaned on his porch railing and waved as if nothing were wrong, though the bags under his eyes told another story. The children still played in the street, their laughter high and sharp, carrying through the smoke-stained air. The hum grew louder each night when she lay in bed, the thin walls trembling with every pulse.
She told herself it was just nerves, just exhaustion. But deep down she knew: this wasn’t nerves. It wasn’t just her. The train was coming.
It became impossible to ignore. The vibrations rattled dishes on the shelf, sent water quivering in glasses. News stations scrambled between distractions — celebrity scandals, political theater — but every once in a while the feed cut to something raw and unpolished: footage of empty warehouses, soldiers marching into city centers, scientists with strained voices warning that the math no longer added up.
People argued. Some insisted nothing was wrong, that everything was under control. Others whispered about stockpiling food, fleeing to the countryside, disappearing before it was too late.
But no matter what words people threw into the air, the hum drowned them all out.
Her own life narrowed into routines. Work. Home. Sleep. Repeat. But each step felt hollow, like an actor following a script written long ago. She moved through the motions of life — smiled at coworkers, nodded at neighbors — but inside, something restless clawed for freedom.
One night she dreamed of chains clattering against stone. She saw herself seated in a cavern, shadows flickering across the wall, and behind her the fire burned — real, but hidden. When she woke, she remembered the old story of the cave. How people mistook shadows for reality, too afraid to turn around and see the light.
Was that her? Was that all of them?
The hum became a roar. The air seemed to vibrate with it. She couldn’t tell anymore whether it came from the world outside or from her own chest, her own pounding heart.
Then the train showed itself.
Not literally — there were no tracks, no engine, no iron beast charging through the night. But its presence was undeniable. Crops failed in fields that once fed millions. Cities blacked out, their skylines falling dark. Armored trucks rolled past the local park where children used to swing. Sirens wailed and then went silent, not because the danger was gone but because there was no one left to sound the alarm.
The ground itself seemed to shake, as though the earth was bracing for collision.
She found herself moving faster each day, rushing through tasks, racing to prepare for something she couldn’t define. She stocked water, canned beans, candles. Her hands trembled as she worked, and she told herself it was practical, necessary — but underneath, she knew none of it could stop what was coming.
And still the question burned in her mind: What if the disaster wasn’t the train at all?
What if the real catastrophe had been life as they had lived it — blind, distracted, worshiping shadows on the wall? What if they had chosen the chains because they were comfortable, because it was easier than facing the light?
The roar grew deafening. She pressed her hands over her ears but it was inside her now, rattling her bones, her blood, her thoughts. Everywhere she turned she saw faces — blank, distracted, terrified — people still pretending, still scrolling, still shopping as though plastic bags could save them.
The train was seconds away.
Everything trembled. The air itself seemed to split with sound. Lights flickered, glass shattered, dogs howled, sirens screamed and cut off in mid-wail. The world tilted toward impact.
She stood in the street, heart pounding so fast she thought her ribs would burst. Around her, people froze. Some screamed. Some prayed. Some stared numbly at the ground as though resignation could shield them.
The roar became unbearable, a shriek of steel against steel, a thousand engines screaming in unison. She braced herself, every muscle locked, her breath caught in her throat.
The train was here.
And then — silence.
The roar collapsed into nothing, as though the world itself inhaled and held its breath. Dust hung suspended in the air. The ground went still.
She opened her eyes, trembling, waiting for the collision that never came.
The train had not hit. Or maybe it already had, long ago.
Her chest ached with the weight of the unspoken truth. The shadows, the comfort, the denial, the lies — all of it shattered in the quiet.
And in that silence, one question struck harder than any impact:
“If the end has been racing toward us all along, was it the world that failed us—or was it the lie we kept calling life?”
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