Terminal

— Next! — barked the irritable woman behind the counter, brushing my question aside.

I stepped back obediently, and an elderly man quickly took my place. After a couple of steps, I hesitated, then hurried back. The crowd grumbled in disapproval:

— Where do you think you’re going? — screeched a woman in a blue raincoat.

— I just need to ask something…

— Everyone here needs to ask something. Wait your turn, — chimed in the man who’d approached the counter after me.

— Look at him, thinking he’s special! — an old lady poked her head out from the back of the line.

While I politely explained my small, dare I say, trifling question that wouldn’t take much time, four more people passed through the line. The cashier handed each a ticket.

— Let him ask; he won’t leave us alone anyway. What do you want? — the woman behind the glass muttered.

— I’m terribly sorry, please forgive me. When will my wife arrive? Could you give me a more precise time so I can wait for her? I’d hate for us to miss each other. Please, could you help?

— What’s this? You can just negotiate here? — a bald man in a leather jacket perked up. — Hey, cashier, let’s talk. I’ll pay you good money, cross my heart, I swear.

— Tsk, blasphemer, — spat the old lady now at the counter.

— No, grandma, hear me out. I know how to make deals; it’s my job. You can’t survive in New York otherwise. I’ve got a barbecue joint, an auto shop, a couple of cafés, and some market stalls. I’m a pro at this. Sweetheart, can we work something out for me?

— Oh, if only it were that simple, — the cashier said playfully, eyeing the man.

Then she turned to me, her face hardening, and snapped:

— Wait like everyone else. Next!

At the words “everyone else,” I flinched and looked around. A long line of people stretched toward the counter, its end disappearing into the foggy distance. What an enormous building. Even during my days at the State Planning Agency, I’d never seen projects this grand. With nothing else to do, I twirled my ticket in my hands and headed to the waiting area. I sat in one of the many empty chairs and glanced around. Through the glass door, I could see trains approaching. Just hop on and go. Maybe sneak aboard? Nah, that’s nonsense—they’d catch me. I’m not the first to try, and their security must be top-notch. The trains arrived almost nonstop, one after another, round the clock, without breaks or weekends. The gap between arrivals was about ten to fifteen seconds. Yet the platform never seemed to empty. Wouldn’t it be easier to run one massive train with a ton of locomotives? I pondered what to do while waiting. There’s nothing here…

— Citizen in the gray coat with the black leather suitcase, you’ve violated the first rule. This is your final warning. Further violations will result in sanctions, — boomed a loudspeaker across the station.

Some in the crowd craned their necks, searching for the man in the gray coat. I instinctively ducked and glanced at my ticket. On the back, it read:

Rule No. 1: Do not mention the devil within the station walls. Penalty: Ticket annulment.
Rule No. 2: Do not board a train out of turn. Penalty: Ticket annulment.
Rule No. 3: Do not stand in front of the viewing glass out of turn. Penalty: Ticket annulment.
The technology’s so advanced it can detect a curse from a distance. Yet their trains are ancient, belching smoke that chokes the air. We retired those back in the ‘70s. The rules are curious. They’re broken constantly, but sanctions are rarely enforced. The reason’s simple: if they revoked tickets for every violation, the trains would run half-empty, and the station would overflow in hours. So, someone from security picks a random person twice an hour and scolds them over the loudspeaker. After each public shaming, a rustle of tickets ripples through the station as newcomers read the rules.

The first rule is broken by nearly half the people in line, simply because our culture is full of expressions involving “devil” or “hell.” The second rule is violated less often. At first, no one rushes to board, but over time, the station’s monotony wears everyone down. Few can endure the long wait. Runaways are methodically caught and led away, sometimes entire families, never to return. The third rule? Everyone’s broken it at least once. Right now, thousands practically live at the viewing platform, terrified of missing even a second. And everyone steps over these cunning folks.

— What’re you thinking about? The chaos around here? I think about it all the time. Imagine a German station—everything so organized. Maybe their trains leave faster than ours, — said a young man who sat beside me, his face like that of a rural schoolteacher: earnest, intelligent, but underfed.

— Thank God, — I glanced at the ceiling, — we’re not in Africa. A family from Tanzania was here recently, walking around, smiling, marveling at the building. They said back home, everything’s out in the open, and tickets get stolen constantly.

— How’d they even end up here? — he asked, puzzled.

— No idea. Bureaucracy.

— Evening, folks, hi! I’ve got a proposition, a real good one, I swear it’s important, — rattled off a short man of indeterminate age who ran up to us. I’d bet my briefcase he’s a gambler or some other shady type.

— Listen, I’ll trade my ticket for yours. What do you say? Mine’s leaving soon, so it’s a great deal. Look at the number, I’m not lying.

He showed us his ticket, glancing around nervously. I looked closer—the number was far better than ours.

— Quick, while it’s safe. The cops are on break from six to six-thirty, no one’s around. I’ve been watching you guys; you seem decent. So, wanna trade?

— Why would you want that? — I asked, studying the ticket. — You’d get out faster. Doesn’t add up.

— I don’t need to leave faster, come on, what’s with the questions? I’ve done some stuff, bad stuff, my dumb head. Now I can’t go, no way. But here, it’s calm, peaceful, you walk around, it’s nice.

— Aren’t the tickets named? — asked my companion.

— Man, why’re you so naive? — the guy said, disappointed. — Look at the platform. See people boarding? Watch how they check tickets. One, two, let through. One, two, let through. They can’t physically check everything. They only look at the number’s length; they don’t have time for more. So, who’s trading?

— Maybe me? — the teacher’s eyes lit up. — My turn’s a long way off; I got my ticket just yesterday.

— How many rows?

— Rows of what?

— The digits. They count by rows.

— Hold on, — he squinted at his ticket without glasses. — Eighteen.

— See, mine’s seven. Deal of the century, — the trader grinned.

— Do they check inside the train? Or at the destination?

— They don’t check anywhere, relax. Just don’t make a fuss, and you’re fine.

— Don’t make a fuss? — the teacher echoed. — What’s that mean?

— Don’t blab too much, — the trader clarified, seeing the teacher’s confusion. — I mean, don’t go telling everyone.

— Oh, no, no way, I’ll be quiet as a mouse, — the teacher beamed.

— Alright, deal’s done, my quiet mouse, — the trader grinned back.

The whole thing felt off to me. If the guy didn’t want to leave, why not toss his ticket, join the line, and get a new one? That’s what those glued to the viewing platform do. No one keeps records anyway.

— I’m not selfish, man, — the trader snapped at me. — I’m helping myself and others. You missed your shot, so keep quiet.

They swapped tickets and parted ways. Spoiler: when the thrilled teacher reached his turn and headed to the platform, they nabbed him during the ticket check and dragged him off somewhere. The scheme was brutally simple. The station’s security couldn’t keep up, so they hired insiders to snitch on rule-breakers for a reduced wait time. But human nature’s rotten even here. When the informants got lazy, they framed newcomers to create violators. New arrivals are like blind moles.

The only thing to do at the station is wait. You wait for trains, for interesting people, for news. You wait for entertainment. You wait for the viewing platform to open. Existence here—it’s not life—is endless waiting. Almost everyone waits for the platform, except those too angry at what they’ve seen or with no one to wait for. But they’re the minority. The platform itself is simple: a massive glass pane, indescribably long and six feet tall, in a far corner of the building. Ninety percent of the time, it’s shrouded in a thick, gray fog that constantly shifts, moves, and breathes. They say there was once a cult of fog-worshippers who whispered to it, begging it to show someone, and it obeyed. Utter nonsense. The glass’s sole purpose is a brief window. At random times, the fog clears, and you see a relative. That’s it. No watching TV. The platform is the only real reason to stay at the station. For a five-minute glimpse, a grandmother might wait forever to see her granddaughter grow up. People watch their kids mature, see where they study or work, and catch fleeting moments of their lives. Nothing’s more precious than knowing your child’s living a good life or that your granddaughter’s named after you. You can’t influence when the window opens; everyone knows that. The cursed fog has a life of its own, parting when it pleases. In the past, there was no fog—just windows painted over. You’d scratch off the paint like a lottery ticket and peek through at your allotted time. The current glass is more advanced. No running around; the fog works individually. No more vouchers either—station clocks chime only for the person whose turn it is. Thank progress! Windows open at different rates—some see them often, others rarely. Suicides get none, announced upon arrival. The powers above decided if you left life willingly, you’ve no right to peek at it.

At the platform, there’s a group called the Agency. They trade information gathered across the station. Say you saw your son with a diploma but couldn’t tell which university. Note the details—cover color, text, abbreviations. The Agency might help, for a price. My first time, I ran across the station, mid-chess tournament, when the clocks chimed. The fog cleared, and there was a dark-haired girl walking down a sidewalk with a grocery bag. That’s Jane, my daughter. She’s grown so much! When I left, she was a toddler, barely out of her stroller. Now she’s a poised young woman, about twenty. So, I’ve been here at least eighteen years. Time doesn’t feel real.

— I can’t tell, — said an old man nearby. — Is that my grandson or not?

— It’s yours, yours. The glass only shows relatives or very close people. Keep it down, — a young woman replied.

— Then he’s a fool. I told him when he was little: study, or you’ll be hauling sacks. And guess what? — I look, and he’s hauling sacks. Wish I’d never seen him.

— My William’s a president now, — a woman sitting on the floor whispered, staring into the fog.

— Yeah, we know, we know, — someone in the crowd grumbled.

The glass was a hub for lively debates on any topic, especially when someone got fresh info. Luckily, all news was relevant since people here come from different eras. Word of the Allied victory in World War II still brings happy tears daily.

— Got anything for us? — a guy from the Agency met me as I left.

— Well, I’ve been here about eighteen years.

— Ugh, — he waved dismissively. — Time doesn’t matter.

Any info unknown to the Agency was valuable and could be sold. Say you glimpsed a news snippet on a TV while watching a relative. If it’s useful, the Agency pays with runners. Runners are the local currency—regular people like us, but they do the most valuable work: finding relatives. They question newcomers, race around the station shouting names. The trade is simple: you give the Agency info, they pay runners with other info. Everyone’s happy. No one can cover all the station’s entrances alone, and the platform eats up time. What if your wife shows up right then? How do you search the whole building? Runners fill that gap. Often, the reward is info about other relatives. So, to learn your son’s university, you’d better hustle.

Luckily, human lives are short, so the wait isn’t too long. With no other pressing tasks, you cling to the past. Sometimes, the past consumes you. They say an old man lived at the platform, watching relatives so distant they shared nothing anymore. Yet the system showed them. He stayed so long the administration forced him onto a train. They say he screamed and fought. Usually, it doesn’t come to that. People watch their kids, grandkids, maybe a few close relatives. When your heart stops aching for great-grandchildren, when your loved ones are near, you board the train calmly.

Station life wasn’t one-dimensional; the chronic emptiness of waiting needed filling. Entertainment emerged—people found soccer balls, cards, chess sets, and held massive tournaments. As for belongings, you arrive with whatever you had in your final moment. There’s no shortage of stuff. Beyond fun, people tackled serious pursuits, like science. Scholars formed makeshift institutes—thousands by the time I left. They studied one thing: the station. Who built it, who’s behind it, how it’s run, where the trains go, and what’s happening here. Few answers made sense. But just before my wife arrived, one group claimed they’d cracked a big question: there are many stations, each gathering a specific cultural group for easier management. If only we knew who designed it all. Eventually, it all grows tiresome. Time’s imperceptible, but a faint weariness builds in everyone.

It built in me too. I saw everything, including my great-grandchildren growing up. Their lives were good, steady, without major tragedies. While waiting for my wife, I met millions, debated countless topics. I wouldn’t call it boring. But there was no peace until I found Mary and the kids. Together, we got a special family ticket set, numbered sequentially. When the time came, I stepped outside the station for the first time and gasped. The building was impossibly vast, stretching beyond sight, filling the horizon. It felt like nothing existed but the station, the platform, and the tracks leading who-knows-where.

— Well, to hell with it, — I muttered, helping my girls onto the train’s steps.

Where we’re headed, I don’t know. Every ticket reads “Final Destination.” Even the longest wait ends someday.