Of all the truths of your being that you have forgotten, there is one, a single flutter, that every so often ignites your mind, if only for a moment. However simple it may seem, it is, and forever will be, as follows: you have always wanted to ride a train.
Ever since you were little, you desperately wanted to ride a train. The polished wood and blackened steel, the slow roar and rhythmic chug of the engine, the sheer spectacle of it all, racing down those rigid tracks. You've wanted to gaze, ever so contently, beyond a perfectly kept cabin, to watch the passing trees, seeing entire forests turn into a blur as you sip warm tea from china too fragile to ever be found on such a volatile machine. It never happened this way, regrettably, but you did, after all, get to ride a sort of train. Yes, even you were a passenger, once, or perhaps many times - it is rather unclear, now. And so, as the warmth of memory overtakes your sentimental synapses, you begin your recollection of the long, quiet walk.
This walk was nothing like scene you yearned for, you recall thinking, as your caretaker, one bony hand wrapped tightly around your wrist, brought you deeper into the tunnel. You took care to walk as slowly as possible, an unwilling waltz through the corridors, through to the end, you assumed, wherever that may be. The lighting was dim, and the halls stank of damp and decay. This was not what you had wanted.
The quiet was deafening. It was as if sound simply died there, devoured by the decaying tiles lining the old, arched walls. You laughed a little to yourself, a weak rasp trickling from your throat as something approaching a smile formed upon your lips. Your first time riding a train, and of course, it was after you had died.
Your mind raced as the tunnel narrowed with every step. Had it been an hour? A few minutes? Time seemed to have abandoned that place, and you figured it was probably irrelevant now. You would never sense time again. Ironically, you remember hearing a ticking, a distinct, metallic, "chk, chk, chk" that could only belong to a pocket watch. A perfectly normal thing, so very mundane, and in there, utterly useless. You tried to turn your head towards the man, or thing, pulling you along, and remembered your body doesn't work that way anymore. You would have bet money that he, or it, was the owner of the elusive timepiece, and its purpose was likely not for keeping time. Not regular time, anyway.
After walking for ages, with nothing but the tick of the watch to accompany your senses, you eventually turned an oddly sharp corner and the tunnel, already quite dark, became inky, crushing black, an almost physical haze. It felt dangerous and cold in a way you had never experienced. You swore you could feel it scrape along your skin, peeling away the last of your mortality, the thoughts and dreams and yearning and... all of it. You started to go numb, little by little, as the sensation of touch, warm, living touch, was slowly replaced by a powerful, otherworldly awareness of your surroundings. That world, or whatever it might have been, almost felt like a part of you, then, the tile and floor becoming a new skin. You were uncertain of your new membrane.
You could hear the sound of a train sat idle. The exhalations of metal, speaking through steam, resting, waiting, somewhere down the line. You quickly became aware of the sound of your own footsteps, or rather, the lack of sound, each step creating a flat nothing. This was a funny thing, and for a second, you almost lost your balance, except... you had no balance to lose. You had no body. You had become nobody.
Through the blackness, you started to see, but not with your eyes. A train station loomed at the end of the tunnel, which grew increasingly wide, almost comically, at its end. You observed the walls changing, swirling, manifesting something resembling a language, though not one you could comprehend. An ornate script, brought to life in shifting stone relief, lined this last section of the passage. In a way, it was exceptionally more beautiful than anything you had ever seen. To be fair, you couldn't remember ever having seen anything else. Your memories were only there, in the tunnel, at the station.
You arrived safely, as safely as you ever could, and the ticking suddenly stopped.
There was nothing after this.
You had always wanted to ride a train, through forests and mountain passages, to escape that which defined your little life, day by day. But now, you thought, in the darkened light, in the station at the end, you understood - there are no days, no lives, not even the "chk, chk, chk" of a pocket watch held by a silent, knowing guide. You had always wanted to ride a train, and in that moment, you had earned your ticket.
