An Almost True Short Story
Harold was a ticket puncher. Not a conductor. Not the guy who yelled “all aboard.” Just the man who walked the aisles, checked your stub, clipped the edge, and moved on. He worked the 4:52 southbound line for almost nineteen years. Long enough for the seats to change color and the coffee to get worse.
Harold wasn’t fast. He wasn’t charming either. But he was steady. His fingers moved like a metronome, flick, snip, nod, next row. He knew how to spot a fake ticket from six feet away. Once caught a guy trying to use a theater stub from three weeks earlier. Harold didn’t laugh. He just stared until the guy folded. Got off at the next stop without a word.
People like Harold don’t end up in books. He lived in a rented brick duplex. Owned two suits—one brown, one browner. Ate pickled eggs from a jar and never used the second burner on his stove. His shoes were always clean. His shirts never fit quite right.
Then one morning, Harold missed his train.
That never happened.
He set three alarms. Laid out his shirt the night before. Pinned the schedule to his wall. The 4:52 never left without him. Until it did.
Nobody knows why. Maybe the alarm didn’t ring. Maybe Harold tripped over his laces or the cat next door or the weight of nineteen years pressing down at once.
But what we do know is that on the morning of October 11th, 1963, Harold stood on the platform and watched his train disappear without him.
And twenty-three minutes later, that train jumped the tracks.
They said it was brake failure. They said the curve was too tight. They said a lot of things.
Seven people didn’t make it.
Harold read the names in the paper. Two of them had shown him their tickets just the day before. A third always sat in the second row and hummed like a broken radiator. She wasn't on the manifest. But Harold remembered her.
They asked if he was shaken. If he felt lucky. Blessed. Cursed. He just said he was sorry he missed work.
He came back the next week. Different train. Different line. Same job. Flick, snip, nod, next row.
He never missed another day.
But he also never talked about that morning again.
Not once.
The only clue came years later, when his landlord found something strange while cleaning out the duplex after Harold passed. No family. No will. Just a box under the sink.
Inside was a single, unpunched train ticket. October 11th, 1963. Southbound line. Row 3, Seat B.
No name. Just the date.
And a sticky note in Harold’s handwriting.
“Didn’t feel right.”