The Mysterious Old Man

On that last train that shouldn't exist, an old man sat in the priority seat. He wore a grey suit jacket washed pale, with traces of sweat-salt at the collar—that style belonged to the era of Gu Mingye's grandfather in his memorial portrait.

His head was bowed, his hands rested on his knees, and he had no belongings with him. Who he was, and why he was on that train, Gu Mingye did not yet know.

When Gu Mingye boarded, the old man didn't look up; he only said softly: Young man, you're not the one who should get off. Then he added: Go down, see it through, and come back. If you can't come back, that's a choice you made yourself.

The train reached Platform Thirteen, and Gu Mingye got off; the old man didn't. He stayed with the train and rode on toward the 'next stop.'

That carriage held him alone, in the priority seat—the first one on the door side, facing backwards.

His head stayed down, hands folded on his knees. Nothing was with him: no bag, no umbrella, none of what a man of that era would ordinarily carry out of the house.

The grey suit jacket was washed pale, with the salt-mark of sweat at the collar. Nobody wears that cut any more; it belongs to the era of the photograph on Gu Mingye's grandfather's memorial portrait.

The carriage lights fell on him, and his shadow did not run the way the shadows of the other seats ran. Gu Mingye did not notice at the time.

When Gu Mingye boarded, he did not look up.

The first: young man, you're not the one who should be getting off. The tone was level, the way you tell a stranger he has dropped something.

The second came after a gap: go down, see it through, and come back. If you can't come back, that was your own choosing. After that he said nothing.

The train reached Platform Thirteen and the doors opened. Gu Mingye got off; the old man did not move. Once the doors closed, the train went on to the next station—there is no such train on the timetable, and no next station either.