Inside the White Line

I missed the last train.

There was no one left on the platform. Only the vending machine was lit, and across the tracks the red lights of an out-of-service train were moving away.

I was about to return to the ticket gates when the white line at my feet began to glow.

“Please stand behind the white line.”

It was the announcement I had heard all my life. But no train was coming. There was no wind. The line itself had simply brightened, a little way back from the platform edge.

I stepped inside it.

My phone vibrated.

“Delay recorded.”

It was not from the railway app. It was not the calendar or the map app either. The sender field was blank.

On the screen, today’s schedule showed only one item.

“Go home.”

Below it, in smaller letters:

“Incomplete.”

That was true. I had not gone home yet. But I did not remember entering it as a plan. When I tried to close the notification, something moved outside the white line.

At the edge of the platform, I was standing there.

The same coat. The same bag. The face was too dark to see clearly. That other me stood beyond the line, looking back. There was no white line at his feet.

The announcement played again.

“Please stand behind the white line. Unconfirmed passengers should remain where they are.”

The other me said something.

I could not hear it, but I understood the shape of his mouth.

“Go home.”

The station clock moved backward by one minute. Far down the track, the red lights of the out-of-service train returned. Somewhere in the tunnel, brakes began to sing.

My phone vibrated again.

“Alternate route restored.”

The screen showed a transfer I had never seen before: three minutes on foot, temporary gate, local train. The arrival time was exactly the same as the train I had missed.

I walked without stepping outside the white line. The other me at the platform edge grew darker with every step.

At the stairs, I looked back.

No one was there.

The next morning, my phone history said only that I had arrived home as scheduled.

But even now, whenever I look down at my shoes on a station platform, I take a small step inward.

I feel as if the version of me who did not make it home is still standing outside the line, delayed by just enough time to be forgotten.