The morning started out perfectly normal. I boarded the 8:03 train, coffee in hand, headphones in, ready for another uneventful commute. But ten minutes later, the announcement crackled through the speaker:
“Good morning, passengers. This is your conductor speaking. We appear to have… misplaced our destination.”
Laughter rippled through the carriage. Everyone thought it was a joke — until the train slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Out the window stretched fields, mist, and a single, inexplicable billboard that read roof cleaning Dundee.
The woman next to me sipped her latte. “That’s not a place,” she said confidently. “That’s… a sign.”
And then, the train doors opened by themselves.
We all stepped out cautiously, like tourists who hadn’t meant to travel this far. A man wearing overalls stood beside the tracks holding a clipboard. “Welcome!” he said cheerfully. “You’ve arrived right on time for pressure washing Dundee!”
No one moved. Someone whispered, “Is this a dream?”
The man clapped his hands. “Ah, new visitors always say that.” He pointed toward a dirt path leading to a tiny village that shimmered slightly, as if it wasn’t entirely solid. The air smelled like peppermint and possibility. Against all logic, we followed him.
At the village square, a group of people were painting large tiles in vibrant colors. One of them turned to us and announced, “You must be here for patio cleaning Dundee. It’s not what it sounds like — it’s a philosophy.”
A few passengers nodded as though that made sense.
A child ran past, dragging a kite that sparkled like sunlight on water. Behind her, an old man sketched a map in the dust, murmuring, “Every journey starts and ends with driveway cleaning Dundee.” His handwriting glowed faintly as he wrote.
Then, as if on cue, the mist began to shift. The ground beneath our feet rippled like a reflection in a pond. The village faded, replaced by the soft rumble of train wheels. We were back in our seats — except no one remembered sitting down.
The conductor’s voice returned, calm as ever. “Apologies for the delay. We seem to have found our way again. Next stop: normality.”
When the train pulled into the city station, everything looked the same — coffee shops, pigeons, the usual hum of everyday life. But there was a faint silver dust on everyone’s shoes, and a strange peace in the air, as though we’d collectively exhaled something heavy.
Before leaving, I looked out the window one last time. Far across the platform, a billboard flickered — Exterior cleaning Dundee — glowing for just a moment before fading into an advertisement for toothpaste.
No one believed my story later, of course. But sometimes, when I ride that same train, I catch the faintest shimmer outside the window — like a village waiting just beyond reality. And every now and then, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, we never came back at all.
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