It was one of the strangest shifts of my career—and as a train conductor on overnight routes, I’ve seen some pretty bizarre things. The train had just pulled out of the station, the night was quiet, and the passengers had mostly settled in. My colleague and I had done our rounds, checked the tickets, and everything seemed smooth.
Then, as I made my way to the rear car to take a short break, I heard something odd. A kind of muffled whimper. Like a puppy maybe, or someone crying really softly. It was coming from the lavatory in the last car, and I remember thinking, “Did someone bring a pet on board and hide it?”
I knocked gently. “Hello? Everything alright in there?”
No answer.
I waited a beat, then knocked again, a little firmer. Still nothing. That’s when I decided to use my key. The door swung open slowly, and what I saw made my heart jolt.
There, sitting on the closed toilet lid, was a little girl—couldn’t have been older than six. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and her tiny arms were wrapped around a faded, one-eyed teddy bear. Her face was blotchy from crying, and she looked up at me like a deer in headlights.
I crouched down, doing my best to sound calm. “Hey there, sweetie. I’m Maya. What’s your name?”
She sniffled, rubbed her nose on her sleeve, and mumbled, “Ella.”
“Hi, Ella. Are you okay? Where are your parents?”
She didn’t answer. Just hugged her teddy tighter and looked away.
I could tell she was scared out of her mind. And not just the kind of scared kids get when they’re lost in a supermarket. This felt deeper. Like she’d been running from something. Or someone.
I glanced up and down the empty hallway. “Alright, Ella, I’m going to help you, okay? But we can’t sit in here all night.”
She hesitated, but when I held out my hand, she finally stood. She was so small. Barely came up to my waist. She had on a puffy red jacket that was clearly too big for her and mismatched socks under little pink sneakers.
I took her to the small staff area at the back of the train and sat her on a stool. I poured her some water and handed her a biscuit from my lunch bag. She took it without a word.
As she nibbled, I said gently, “You’re not in trouble, I promise. But I need to understand how you got on the train. Were you with someone?”
She shook her head.
“You came alone?”
She nodded.
“How did you get through the gate?”
She looked up at me, finally locking eyes. “I followed a group of people. Nobody saw me.”
I sat back, heart twisting. We were at least an hour out of the city by now, speeding through the countryside. There was no easy way to just turn around or call someone to come pick her up.
I alerted my colleague, Tom, and together we contacted the authorities at the next station. But I couldn’t just leave her to wait with strangers.
As the train rattled on, I stayed by Ella’s side. I told her funny stories about weird passengers and showed her how the intercom worked. Slowly, she started to relax. She even smiled a little when I showed her how to make the “ding-dong” sound with the announcement bell.
Then, out of the blue, she asked, “Are you a mom?”
I blinked. “No, I’m not.”
“You talk like a mom,” she said quietly. “Not like a stranger.”
That hit me right in the chest.
We sat in silence for a while, just the hum of the train and the occasional bump of tracks beneath us. I didn’t push her for more. But eventually, she started talking.
