After 9 years away, Luca returned to the town where he grew up. But instead of going home, he walked straight to the abandoned train station — and what he found inside left him frozen in place.
“Don’t go in there,” a woman’s voice warned softly from the shadows.
Luca turned. A middle-aged woman with tired eyes and graying hair stood beside a rusted fence, holding a lantern.
“Are you… the caretaker?” he asked.
“I’m just someone who remembers,” she replied.
Luca explained: “I used to come here every weekend with my little brother. It was our special place. Then I left. And he… never made it out.”
The woman stared at him for a long moment.
“I know the one,” she said gently. “He used to sit right there on that bench. Rain or shine.”
Luca’s throat tightened. That old bench was still there — barely standing.
He stepped into the crumbling platform, his footsteps echoing like ghosts.
Then he froze.
On the bench sat a faded red backpack.
His brother’s.
Unmoved. Untouched. Waiting.
And underneath it, a folded piece of paper — yellowed, but still legible.
He unfolded it with trembling fingers.
It read:
“I knew you’d come back.”
Luca’s knees buckled as he clutched the note. The paper smelled faintly of rain and time — but the ink hadn’t smudged. It was unmistakably his brother’s handwriting.
The woman stepped closer but didn’t cross onto the platform.
“Some say he never really left this place,” she said, her voice soft like wind through old leaves. “People hear footsteps. Whispers. Sometimes… laughter.”
Luca’s fingers traced the name stitched into the backpack. Marco.
His throat burned.
He looked up toward the tracks — overgrown, rusted, silent.
“Why was the bag never moved?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
The woman hesitated. “Because no one dares touch it. Every time someone tries, something happens. Lights go out. The ground shakes. Once, a man tried to take it and didn’t make it past the crossing before his brakes failed.”
Luca turned to her sharply. “Are you saying his spirit is still here?”
“I’m saying this place remembers what love leaves behind,” she replied. “Especially promises.”
Luca sat beside the backpack. His palms shook as he gently opened the front pocket. Inside, he found a photograph — creased and fading — of the two of them, side by side on that very bench. Luca was 13. Marco was 8. Both smiling. Both unaware of the day that would change everything.
He couldn’t stop the tears now.
“I shouldn’t have left him that day,” Luca whispered. “He begged me not to go.”
From somewhere deep in the shadows of the station, a breeze stirred.
It carried a whisper.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Luca’s heart nearly stopped. He stood and looked around, breath catching in his throat.
“Marco?” he called, voice cracking.
Silence. Then, softly, the sound of a child’s laughter — distant, but unmistakable.
The lantern the woman held flickered.
Luca looked back at the note. His brother had written more on the back:
“When you come back, don’t look for me. Just sit. I’ll be beside you.”
Luca sat again. He closed his eyes. And for the first time in nine years… he smiled.
