Chapter 9 - Episode 9: The Train That Never Came

🌊 Salt in the Wind Episode 9: The Train That Never Came

Ren returned from the tree with the tin box tucked under his coat, heart still thudding from the message inside. The hostel room felt smaller now, crowded with memories that weren't his but somehow belonged to him. He placed the letter beside the others, the wax seal still intact.

Aleksy arrived just after sunset, his coat damp from sea spray. He didn't speak at first—just looked at Ren, then at the wall of photographs and notes.

"You found something," he said finally.

Ren nodded. "A letter. Buried under the tree."

Aleksy stepped closer, reading the words aloud.

"If you've found this, then you've found us. We were here. We loved. We were real."

He exhaled slowly. "They carved their truth into the earth."

Ren watched him. "You okay?"

Aleksy didn't answer right away. He traced the edge of the letter with his finger. "I used to think silence was safer. That if you didn't speak, no one could use your words against you."

Ren sat beside him. "But silence erases people."

Aleksy nodded. "And I don't want to be erased."

They sat in quiet for a while, the wind tapping against the window like a heartbeat. Then Aleksy pulled a folded map from his coat pocket.

"My grandfather marked this years ago," he said. "Old train routes. There's one that used to run through the forest, near the tree. He said it was where people waited for someone who never came."

Ren leaned in. "Masaru?"

Aleksy pointed to a faded red circle. "There's a clearing. He used to go there every summer. Said he was waiting for a train that would bring Aleksander back."

Ren's throat tightened. "He waited for decades."

Aleksy nodded. "Hope is stubborn."

The next morning, they set out early, the forest still damp with dew. The path was overgrown, branches clawing at their coats. Birds scattered as they walked, the air thick with memory.

They reached the clearing by noon. It was quiet, untouched. A rusted bench sat beneath a crooked tree. Beside it, a stone marker—unofficial, unmarked.

Ren knelt beside it. "Someone made this."

Aleksy brushed away leaves. Beneath them was a name, carved faintly: Masaru Takahashi.

Ren's breath caught. "He made his own grave."

Aleksy shook his head. "No. He made a place to remember."

Ren sat on the bench, camera in hand. He photographed the marker, the tree, the bench. Then he noticed something else—scratched into the wood beneath the seat.

A + M. 1944. Still waiting.

Aleksy sat beside him. "He never stopped believing."

Ren looked at him. "Do you?"

Aleksy hesitated. "I want to."

They stayed until the light began to fade, the forest casting long shadows. Ren took one last photo—Aleksy, sitting quietly, eyes distant.

Back at the hostel, Ren printed the photo and pinned it beside the others. The wall was growing—Aleksander's sketches, Masaru's letters, the cave, the cabin, the tree, the bench.

Aleksy stood behind him, arms crossed. "It's becoming something."

Ren nodded. "A story. A truth."

Aleksy touched the photo of the bench. "I think he waited here every year. Just sat and listened."

Ren looked at him. "What do you hear?"

Aleksy closed his eyes. "Waves. Footsteps. A promise."

Ren didn't speak. He just reached out, gently, and took Aleksy's hand.

Aleksy didn't pull away.