The last train of the night doesn't leave until morning. That's the secret of Terminus: you board at midnight and you sleep in the station.
I arrived soaked. Rain comes sideways in that canyon, and the signal lamps in the arch turn it red, so walking the platform feels like walking through something warm. The carriage was already waiting, long and dark, with one compartment lit halfway down. Mine.
Inside: a narrow bed made tight, a folded blanket the colour of rust, a window the full length of the berth. I could see the rails shining in the puddles, and above them the hall climbing into the rock until the light gave out.
Nobody makes announcements at Terminus. There is only the rain on the carriage roof, the brakes sighing every few minutes as they settle, and somewhere deep in the hall a note so low you feel it more than hear it. It didn't change all night.
I remember deciding to stay awake to watch us pull out. I remember the red on the ceiling. Nothing after that.
— a passenger in sleeper 7, March 2085