Soul Express

How much is a final hug worth?

It was morning, and the city was Castle Diamond — April, 1980.
Manson Latroi — 45 years old, retired due to disability —
was on a short trip, visiting the famous City of Waters,
known for its mineral springs and light mountain air.

At that moment, Manson was at the city’s main station,
waiting for the train that would take him back to Castle Diamond.
But something was strange that morning.

The station, usually full of tourists and locals,
was mysteriously empty.
There were no voices, no footsteps, no familiar sound of tracks.

Manson looked around uneasily — to one side, to the other, hoping to find someone.
But there was no one.
What he saw, however, was something no man would ever expect to see:

A train was approaching. But it wasn’t made of iron,
it didn’t have the heavy weight of ordinary trains.
It was an ethereal express — translucent, beautiful, and impossible.

Yes, Manson wasn’t crazy.
What approached was a spectral train,
with soft lights that seemed to flicker in another dimension,
in a rhythm that touched the soul more than the eyes.

His eyes lit up.
There was a longing in his chest he had never felt before —
an almost carnal urge, as if that train carried something that had always belonged to him.

The train stopped before him. The door opened gently,
as if time had bent for a moment.

And then… she appeared.
A charming conductor, dressed in an old and elegant uniform,
but with eyes that seemed to understand more than a lifetime of words.

She extended her hand.
A subtle smile, persuasive, irresistible.

Manson didn’t hesitate.
He boarded the Soul Express.

Manson’s heart was pounding.
But not from fear — it was pure, ancient excitement,
as if he were crossing into a dream he had once had,
in another life, another time.

The air inside the train was different.
No burnt oil or heated metal, like in ordinary trains.
There, the scent was light, enveloping: a mix of old incense,
wet wood, and a fresh hint of wild mint.

The wagons seemed infinite.
There were no windows, but on the sides, images floated in constant motion:
blurred memories, scenes from lives that maybe were never lived,
or perhaps were still waiting to be.

The seats were huge, inviting,
covered in fabric so soft it whispered at the touch.
And more than that — they changed color depending on the mood of whoever sat in them.

The conductor walked ahead in silence.
Her footsteps made no sound,
as if the floor simply accepted her presence
without needing to announce it.

Manson followed, hypnotized.
Something in him knew that path had no return,
yet every step felt inevitable.

She stopped in front of a silver door.
Its surface was smooth and cold, with embossed symbols
that pulsed softly.

The woman turned, her eyes glowing gently:

— What you lost… is beyond this door, Mr. Latroi.
But know this: upon finding it again, part of you will stay behind.
And time… does not forgive borrowed moments.

Manson swallowed hard.
He felt a chill that didn’t come from cold,
but from the space between mystery and longing.

Still, he nodded.

The door opened with a cold breath of air.

And there they were.
His parents.
Alive.
Smiling.
Exactly as he remembered them
on the last morning before their departure.

Manson ran without thinking.
His heart racing, arms wide open.
The hug was like diving into childhood.
The pain, suspended.
Time, frozen.

— Son! — his mother said, emotional — You look so well!
We’re so proud of you, dear!

But there was something in Manson. A moist sparkle in his eyes:

— But mom… the job…
He lowered his head, burdened.
— It wasn’t my body that failed. It was the weight of things. My mind… couldn’t keep up with time. I… I had to stop, mom.

She hugged him tighter.

— That changes nothing! The pride we feel for the man you’ve become isn’t tied to your work, my love!
Your father and I are so happy to see you again.
How did you manage this?

— I was waiting for the usual train…
But then, out of nowhere, this… spectral express appeared.
And something in it pulled me.
Attracted me with a force I couldn’t resist…
And now… now I see… how blessed I’ve been!

His father appeared from behind, teary-eyed:

— Son, this comes at a cost…
Talk to the conductor carefully.
These expresses charge a high price. In lifetime, son!
But before that, give your old man one more hug…
I’ve missed you so much!

— Dad… my heart is full.
I miss you both so terribly.

And then… the siren.

A piercing, deafening sound from all directions.

— Mom?! Dad?! What is this?
What does that siren mean?

His mother looked at him, gently holding his face:

— Run, my love.
The Express is leaving.
Your time with us… is over.

— But I love you!
I don’t care about time left…
Being with you — was worth several years of life.

But the train… was waiting for Manson.
And he ran back.
The Souls Express stood still, doors open.

Manson stepped in, and everything went dark.
Time inside the train wasn’t like outside — it was something else.
Hours? Minutes? A moment? He would never know.

When he came to…
He was back.

Manson stepped out of the Souls Express in silence.
The station looked the same —
empty, quiet, but now the air felt heavier, thicker.
He walked slowly, as if his body carried something more,
something invisible, yet immensely heavy.
It felt like part of him had stayed behind — inside that silver door.

He looked around, trying to grasp how much time had passed.
Could one live so much in so little time?

He walked to the small café near the station.
Went in and asked for a coffee.
The waitress looked at him twice before writing down the order.

— “Are you okay, sir?” — she asked gently.

Manson didn’t answer right away.
He only understood the question when he saw his reflection
in the mirror behind the counter.

There he was. But not the same.

Strands of white ran through his hair — a lot of them.
His eyes… held a new weight, a depth even he didn’t recognize.
His beard had turned silver,
his hands thinner, more fragile.
When he lifted the cup, he noticed — his joints ached.

He had aged. Ten years, maybe.

He had aged. Ten years, maybe more — for one morning with his parents.

But there was no regret.
No sorrow.

A tear rolled down, freely.
And with it, a quiet truth:

— “It was worth it.”

Manson finished his coffee. Paid.
And walked back to the only train station in Waterside City.
He had to catch the train to Castle Diamond.

This time, there were more people.
Faces. Noise. Life.
He breathed in, relieved.

He felt tired. His body was heavier than before.
But something had been planted deep in his chest:

— “Tomorrow, I’ll start running.”
— “Five laps around Hawk Square. Three kilometers. That’ll help.”

The Limeira Express was arriving.
Just a regular train.

Manson got in. Took a seat.
And there, with his body tired,
he let his mind drift again.

He thought of his parents.
Of the hugs.

But a new thought began to rise, louder:

— “I can return to Waterside City…
take the Souls Express again…
and see… Elisa.”

That thought pounded his mind with gentle force.
He didn’t even notice the trip.
Soon, he was arriving at Sweet River station, in Castle Diamond.

Back home.
Manson removed his clothes slowly,
as if dealing with a new body —
or rather, one too old for what he was used to.

He showered.
The hot water ran over him,
but it couldn’t wash away the thought:

Elisa.

It was like each drop of water dug deeper into his longing to see her.
He tried to focus on something simple — make some food.
But as he grabbed the silverware, sliced the bread, heated the tea…
she was still there.
In his mind. In his chest. In the air.

“If I go to see Elisa… I’ll definitely return even older,” he thought.
“But I want to see her so badly…”

The night came like a weight —
with no ceremony, no warning.
And tiredness, like an old friend, pushed him to bed.
Manson dropped onto it and fell asleep.

A deep sleep. Deserved. Peaceful.

Morning:

Manson woke up.
Got up slowly.
Prepared a strawberry smoothie,
and walked toward Hawk Square.

He knew the square was 600 meters around.
Five laps would be three kilometers.
His first day running.

And that’s what he did.
He arrived, warmed up, and began to run…

Hawk Square — 8:40 a.m.
Manson finished his fifth lap.
He was sweating. Breathing hard.
But smiling.

His body ached.
But his mind… was more alive than ever.

— “I still can,” he thought.
— “Even now, I can still run.”

He slowed his pace. His knees hurt more than the day before.
He walked to one of the wooden benches under the trees.

That’s when he saw the man.

Sitting alone.
Wearing a hat. Light-colored coat.
Shoes too clean for a small-town park.

The kind of person that seems to have been there for hours…
or maybe… never truly arrived.

The man raised his eyes slowly.
Manson felt a chill — and it wasn’t from the wind.

— “Good run, Manson?”

Manson froze.
Didn’t answer.

Just hearing his name from a stranger made his heart race.

The man smiled.
He had no teeth.
But it was a kind smile. Not mocking.

— “Elisa asked if you’re really coming.”

Silence.
Manson couldn’t move.

— “She said you like strawberries.
That you always make cold smoothies in the morning.
And that, if you were really ready…
you’d notice the bench where she used to sit
when she was still around.”

Manson looked around.
That bench.
It was the one.

Elisa loved the shadow of the south corner tree.

His legs gave in.
He sat beside the man.

— “How much?” — he whispered.

The man looked ahead,
as if watching an invisible train pass through the city buildings.

— “Maybe another 20 years. Maybe more.
But…
she’s waiting for you.
Hair down. Blue dress.
That one you bought one New Year’s…
thinking she’d never wear it.”

Manson listened.
Stood up.
Walked away.

But Manson’s mind was torturing him.

— “If you go… you’ll come back an old man, Manson.”

He tried to push the thoughts away.
But they returned. Like ghosts.

He pictured himself with canes.
Bent over.
Dependent.

It hurt more than his knees.
It was his heart, raw and exposed.

He longed to be with Elisa.
One last kiss.

His heart urged him to go.
His mind tortured him with the cost.

— What to do?

Manson felt like he was losing his sanity.

That day passed in silence.
In pain.
Between the heart and the mind.

Night fell like a bowling ball thrown through a window.

Manson lay down.
Breathed.
Breathed deeply.
And, by some grace, managed to fall asleep.

— Elisa, my love…

In the dream, Elisa was there.
Her eyes shining, arms wide open.

— Manson, my love! Come! Hold me… I can’t stand the longing anymore!

She was on the other side.
The banks of the Rio Negro between them.

He didn’t think twice.
He dove into the water.

The waters were dark, cold, heavier than any real river.
But desire… oh, desire was stronger.

— Love! Come to me! I love you! — she shouted from the other side.

But Manson felt his body failing.
He had no strength.
His hands wouldn’t pull, his feet wouldn’t kick.

He was sinking.
Age dug its claws into his bones.
Youth had stayed on the shore.

— Someone… someone help me! Please!

The cry was not heard.
It was swallowed by the dark, cold waters.

And then… he woke up.

With his arms raised, as if still fighting to swim.
Sweat on his body. Face wet. Chest heaving.

But he was alive.
In his room.
In the real world.

He took a deep breath.
Got up.

Prepared his strawberry shake.
Drank it slowly.
And thought, with a painful calm:

— Nothing… nothing will take from my mind that I need to see Elisa.

He dressed.
Got ready — clothes and shoes on.
And ran to Castle Diamond Station.

There, he bought his ticket.
Destination: City of Waters.

On the train, as time slid past the window,
he reflected:

— Twenty more years will leave me at seventy-five… I can live with that. What matters now… is seeing her, being with Elisa.

The train cut through valleys and hills,
but Manson no longer saw the landscape.
Only a blue dress dancing in his memory.
And a smile calling him to the other side.

City of Waters Station, late morning.
Manson stepped off the regular train, the Limeira Express.

This time, there was movement.
Men with suitcases, children running, women reading newspapers.
Everything seemed normal — but Manson knew:

Nothing was normal.
Not after what he had seen.
Not after what he had felt.

He walked to the schedule board.
Eyes scanning the old wood and yellowed papers.

Nothing.
No words. No sign.
“The Soul Express” wasn’t there.

But he knew it would come.
He felt it.

He sat on the same bench as before.
In the corner. The one that seemed to be waiting for him.

He closed his eyes.

Minutes. Hours.
Time dissolved.

And then, a sound.

Not from the tracks.
From inside him.
An ethereal whisper that grew slowly, like an echo from beyond.

The mist appeared, tearing through reality.
The train emerged again — slow, beautiful, tragic.

The door opened.

She was there. The same engineer.
The same gaze that pierced through skin and masks.

— Second trip, Mr. Latroi?

Manson smiled. He was tired. But resolute.

— I’m ready.

She extended her hand.

— Elisa awaits you, wearing the blue dress.

He boarded The Soul Express without fear.
He already knew the cold. He already knew the cost.
But love… love he had never known in full.

On the other side of life:

Elisa awaited him.
Hair down. Blue dress.
Arms open.
The same smile he swore he had forgotten — but never did.

— My love! — he said. — So much time! So much longing!

— I knew you’d come, my love! I always knew.

They embraced like two worlds being mended.
They kissed like those who beg the universe for a truce in time.

And time… stopped.

Manson looked at her like a boy looks at his first shooting star.

— How I wish I could stay, love… stay here with you. Forever.

— It would be the most beautiful thing, my love… but we know it’s not possible.

The siren sounded.
Loud. Sharp. Unavoidable.

Elisa held his face.
Her eyes trembled, but she smiled:

— Run, love. Run. You need to go back.

Manson looked at her like one tries to engrave infinity in a second.
Then he turned.

The Soul Express awaited him.
The engineer greeted him with a slight nod.

— Welcome back, Mr. Manson.

He boarded.
Sat down.
And fell asleep.

In the City of Waters, The Soul Express faded like mist.
Manson awoke to a gentle touch from the engineer.

— We’ve arrived, Mr. Latroi.

He opened his eyes, murmured a nearly voiceless “thank you,”
and stepped off.

The world felt slower.
Heavier.
More distant.

The station, now lit by the late afternoon sun,
was full of voices, luggage, and life.
But Manson saw only the path to the other train.

His body ached. His legs wavered.
Still, he walked to the platform.
He needed to return to Castle Diamond.

The regular train arrived.
When he boarded, something happened:

People stood up.

Without saying a word, they just stood, offering their seats.
And in that gesture, Manson understood.

He was visibly old.
His vision was blurry.
His breathing short and labored.

On the ride, he tried to stay conscious.
But his mind spun through images:
his mother’s smile, Elisa’s kiss, the train dissolving into the ether.

When the train stopped in Castle Diamond,
Manson stepped off.

Or tried to.

Because his knees gave way.

He collapsed onto the station floor like a sack of bones and memories.

He crashed onto the station floor like a sack of bones and memories.

Three younger men rushed to him.

Carefully, they lifted him and set him on one of the benches.

One of them pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance.

The paramedics arrived quickly.

Manson was placed on a stretcher, an oxygen mask on his face, eyes half-open.

São Miguel Hospital – 18:10

Manson lay at rest.

Wires, monitors, and tubes connected to him.

But his eyes… they were open.

Fixed on the window.

And out there, he swore he had seen —

even if for just a second —

a track from the Soul Express cutting through the city’s grey sky.

The doctor walked into the room with measured steps.

He carried a clipboard

and a face trained to appear neutral,

but unable to hide the weight of what he carried.

Beside the bed, a young nurse held Manson’s hand.

— Mr. Latroi… — the doctor began, in a low tone.

— We’ve received your test results.

We’ve scanned your skull, your lungs…

We also evaluated your immune system.

Pause.

Silence.

— We found advanced signs of neurodegenerative wear.

Your heart is extremely weak.

And your lymphatic system… is reacting like that of a ninety-five-year-old patient.

Manson simply closed his eyes.

And… smiled.

The doctor hesitated, then went on:

— We estimate you have between six months and one year left to live.

The nurse gently squeezed his hand.

Her eyes glistened.

Manson took a deep breath.

Opened his eyes.

And said, with a faint smile:

— I saw her.

She was waiting for me in the blue dress.

And… she smiled.

The doctor didn’t understand.

The nurse did.

She said nothing, but her eyes shone.

In that moment, even knowing death was near,

Manson felt complete.

Because before dying, he had been loved.

And before leaving, he had returned.

Room 212 — São Miguel Hospital — one week later

Manson no longer spoke much.

His voice was fading slowly, like a candle not extinguished by the flame,

but by the base — by the weariness of holding itself up.

But he still wrote.

Beside the bed lay an old notebook,

black cover, worn edges,

smelling of old memories.

Every morning, Manson scribbled something.

Loose words. Short phrases.

Fragments of thoughts no one understood —

except him.

He did not write to be understood.

He wrote so as not to fade away.

On the last page, with trembling, slow handwriting, he left:

“Time took me,

but before…

it gave me back.

Two kisses.

Two hugs.

Thirty years less in the body.

An eternity more in the soul.”

That morning, the nurse came in.

The same one who held his hand.

The one who understood what others could not see.

She approached.

Saw the notebook.

Saw Manson with his eyes closed, breathing calmly.

Beside the bed lay a small folded note.

Old paper.

Golden handwriting.

She picked it up and carefully unfolded it.

“Soul Express

Journey No. 2

Passenger: Manson Latroi

Status: Return completed.

Remaining balance: 0”

The nurse closed her eyes for a moment.

Then looked at him.

Manson smiled —

without opening his eyes.

And that late afternoon,

in the grey city of Castle Diamond,

a cold breeze swept through the hospital windows.

And for a brief second…

A distant sound cut through the silence —
like tracks that cry…
in the last breath of a forgotten time.

🖋️ END