The Last Train Home by Fendy Satria Tulodo, Café Latte

 

by Fendy Satria Tulodo

Café Latte

There was something magical about the last train that left Malang each night. It wasn’t the fastest, nor the most luxurious, but it carried stories of home and hope. And for Hana, that was enough.

She waited by the platform, watching the neon lights flicker above her. The train wasn’t due yet, but she felt the chill of the night creeping into her bones. She pulled her jacket tighter and glanced at the small paper bag in her hand—inside, a piece of her heart was carefully wrapped.

Hana had grown up in the small village near Tumpang, just outside of Malang, where time seemed to move slower than in the city. There, people still greeted each other by name, and the rhythm of daily life followed the rise and fall of the sun.

It was a life she had left behind a few years ago when she moved to the city to chase dreams that didn’t quite fit. But tonight, she was heading back.

Her phone buzzed, a message from her brother: “We’ll wait for you, sis. Mama’s waiting too.”

She smiled and let out a breath. The feeling of returning home after so long was both comforting and strange. The city had changed her in ways she wasn’t sure she was ready to admit.

She wasn’t the same girl who had once run barefoot through the rice paddies near their house, her laughter ringing out under the hot Malang sun. Those carefree days felt like another lifetime. And yet, as the last train to Tumpang approached, Hana felt that pull again, the one that had always called her back to the village, no matter how far she traveled.

The train arrived with a hiss of steam, and Hana stepped on, looking for an empty seat. The compartments were crowded, mostly with tired office workers, students, and a few quiet families making their way home. As the train started moving, she settled into her seat, trying to ignore the familiar knot in her stomach.

She had left her family behind to pursue her career in the city—her mother, always proud but always worried; her brother, who had taken over their father’s small shop; and her younger sister, who had just started high school. Every visit back home felt like she was stepping into another world. They had stayed the same, while she had changed.

As the train rattled on, Hana looked out the window at the darkening landscape. The city lights faded behind her, and soon, all that could be seen were stretches of farmland and occasional clusters of houses. The farther she went, the more her heart seemed to quiet. The city was fast, noisy, and unforgiving, but here, it was peaceful. The air smelled different too, like damp earth and the sweetness of blooming jasmine from the roadside.

The train chugged along, its rhythmic sound a comfort. Hana closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the quiet nights she had left behind in the village. Her mother’s warm cooking, the sound of her father’s voice calling her in for dinner, the low murmur of the radio playing in the background as they gathered together in the small living room.

A slight jolt woke her from her thoughts. The train had slowed, and the lights overhead flickered.

"Must be an electrical issue," a man sitting across from her muttered under his breath. Hana nodded but said nothing. She was used to these minor delays on the journey home. It wasn’t unusual for the last train of the night to experience some hiccups. The route, while charming, wasn’t always well-maintained.

Minutes passed, but the train didn’t start moving again. The buzz of murmuring voices around her increased as passengers began to look out the windows or ask one another what was going on. Hana felt an uneasy stir in her stomach. She had been on this train countless times, but this wasn’t like the usual delays.

A few minutes later, the train lurched again, much more violently. People gasped, and the lights flickered out, leaving the train in almost complete darkness. The only sounds were the nervous shuffle of feet and the soft click of fingers against mobile phone screens as passengers tried to light their way.

“Stay calm,” a voice came over the loudspeaker. It was the conductor, but the usual reassuring tone in his voice was gone. “We’ve had a little detour. Please remain seated.”

A detour? Hana’s heart skipped a beat. The last train had always been reliable, but this was something different. She looked out the window but saw nothing but blackness. Not even the distant lights of the city could be seen.

“What’s going on?” the man across from her asked. His voice trembled slightly, betraying his calm exterior.

“I don’t know,” Hana replied, glancing nervously at the other passengers. “Maybe a technical issue?”

“No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “This doesn’t feel right.”

There was a pause, and then he added, “You know, some people say that the last train is cursed. They say it takes you where you’re meant to go, not where you want to be.”

Hana frowned. She’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in the village had their stories about the last train—the whispers of people vanishing on it, only to return years later as shadows of themselves. But those were just stories, weren’t they?

But the unease in the air was palpable. It felt like the night had grown heavier, the kind of silence that seemed to stretch on forever.

“Where do you think we are?” Hana asked, her voice barely a whisper. The man across from her looked out the window again, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know. But something’s off.”

After what felt like an eternity, the train started moving again. The screech of the wheels against the tracks was jarring in the stillness, and the lights flickered back to life. Hana let out a breath, though her heart was still racing. But when she looked out the window, the view had changed.

Instead of the familiar stretch of farmland, she saw only a field of tall, swaying grass in the moonlight. There were no lights in the distance, no sign of a village or a town. Just the empty, shadowy landscape stretching out before them.

The train’s rhythmic clatter had slowed as it came to a stop. Hana’s pulse quickened, and she stood, her legs unsteady.

“Excuse me,” she called to the conductor, who was moving down the aisle, “where are we? This isn’t the usual route.”

The conductor turned to her with a strained smile. “We’ve had to make a detour. Don’t worry, we’ll be on our way soon.”

Hana opened her mouth to ask more, but before she could, the man sitting across from her stood up and walked toward the door. His jacket was wrinkled, and his face had a worn, tired look that didn’t belong to someone who should be on this train. There was something odd about him, something that didn’t sit right. He paused near Hana as if hesitating.

“You’ll never really reach home if you keep running away from it,” he said, his voice barely audible over the murmurs of the other passengers. He looked her in the eye, and then he walked out of the compartment, disappearing into the dimly lit hallway.

Hana stood there, her mind racing. She had heard those words before, but they didn’t come from a memory. They were spoken to her. By him. She didn’t know how, but somehow, those words felt more like a question than advice. Was she running away from home? From her family, from herself?

The train slowly started moving again, but the sense of unease lingered in the air. The soft thud of her heart echoed in her ears as Hana sank back into her seat. She hadn’t realized how tightly she was gripping the paper bag in her lap, the one with her mother’s handmade cookies inside. With trembling hands, she opened it, taking one of the cookies.

It was sweet, the way her mother always made them—soft and warm, with a hint of cinnamon. As she chewed, a wave of homesickness hit her. The taste of her mother’s love, the quiet nights, and the smell of jasmine in the air, it all seemed so far away now. She closed her eyes, the weight of the past and the present pressing down on her chest.

The landscape outside the window had started to change again, and soon, they were entering the familiar outskirts of Malang. The buildings, the traffic lights, and the sounds of the city were slowly coming back into focus. But Hana felt different, like the time she had spent away had shifted something inside her.

By the time the train reached Tumpang, the sun was beginning to rise. The sky was painted in soft shades of pink and orange, and the air smelled fresh, like rain on dry earth.

Hana stepped off the train, her heart lighter but still heavy with questions. The village looked the same—familiar faces, the same small shops lining the streets, the smell of fried tempeh and nasi goreng wafting from nearby food carts. But she wasn’t the same. She wasn’t sure she would ever be the same again.

Her family was waiting for her by the platform. Her brother grinned, holding out his arms in a welcome. “Welcome home, sis,” he said, his voice warm and familiar.

Hana smiled back, feeling tears prick her eyes. It was home. But was it where she belonged anymore?

As she walked toward them, she felt it—a soft whisper in the wind. Sometimes, the journey was the answer. And maybe, just maybe, this was the place where she was always meant to be.

 

About the author

Fendy is a writer and creative professional based in Malang, Indonesia. With a background in automotive sales and strategic communication, he crafts stories that explore human connection and emotional journeys. His work blends local culture with universal themes, delivering narratives that resonate with readers.