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King blinked as a snowflake suddenly appeared in front of him, one turning to two, two turning to ten, and ten turning to hundreds. In just a couple moments the previous clear - albeit, rather brisk - air was filled with snow, the flakes swirling around King and piling atop the roof of the train that he was riding. The cold that the sudden snowfall brought with it was painful, sharp flakes of snow hitting his skin like tiny needles as the train picked up speed, tilting up as it trundled up a rather steep hill.
As the world around him turned white, King thought that it was fitting for it to snow on this specific day, the day of course being Christmas Eve, 1933. Although, it was not a merry Christmas Eve for King, as he was spending it alone. King had nobody to celebrate with, as a hobo he had few friends and fewer family, and of course no home to call his own. He had no Christmas tree, no presents, he had absolutely nothing besides the meager belongings that were vital to his survival. King had very little Christmas cheer, a result of the rough hand life had given him.
Only a few hours previously, he had been staying in the shadowy corner of a train station. He had been settled down in a soggy cardboard box that the rats called home as much as he did, and he had been there for about a week,bwhen a beautiful train - (a Baldwin 2-8-4 S3-class Berkshire type steam locomotive, a relatively new one, as a teenager with braces and glasses had excitedly told her disinterested mother) pulled into the station. The bright metal, shining in the evening light, caught King's eye and the words carefully painted on the side of it declared it to be called The Polar Express. As he watched families board the train, a stern looking conductor greeting them and punching their ticket, King had made a spur-of-the-moment decision. He had quickly gathered his meager belongings and clambered atop the roof of the train, hunkering down without even knowing where the train was destined. He was a hobo after all, he didn't have anything holding him down, anything to prevent him from just going wherever the Polar Express would take him.
Now, as he was battered with icy wind and sharp bits of snow that had him curling tightly around himself to conserve the meager dredges of warmth that he had left, King found himself wondering if it would have been better for him to stay in that train station. He was settled upon his old wooden crate, a small and rather pitiful stack of damp sticks at his feet. He had tried to start a fire to keep himself warm, but the howling winter winds had swiftly extinguished it. He had only one matchstick left, and he was rather reluctant to use it with the high chance that it would immediately go to waste. His socks were wet, and the packets of soluble coffee that was tucked into his hat were useless without a fire to melt snow and boil water. His hurdy-gurdy was safely stowed in his box, but his fingers were far too cold to play it. His skis and bindle were laying beneath his legs, but there was nothing in there that would give him warmth.
Sticking a hand in his pocket to warm his frigid fingers - his red gloves having many holes that left his fingers exposed -, King's searching digits found nothing but a single coin, the only money which he hand to his name - and nowhere near enough to afford him a ticket to the warm interior of the train he was sat upon, nowhere near enough to afford him a nice cup of hot cocoa, freshly poured.
King sighed, the sound being immediately lost into the howling winds that circled and tugged at him like a pack of feral and starving wolves, threatening to pull him straight off the train entirely.
King looked up as the train crested the hump of the hill it had been ascending, looking down the tracks as the train tilted downwards. As the Polar Express picked up speed, King felt his blood run cold. He recognized the tracks the train was on - and, most importantly, he recognized the tunnel in the distance, the tunnel that was rapidly approaching.
It was a tunnel that all freight hoppers warned fellow hoppers of, a tunnel which all hobos knew of. These tracks were ones that were feared, ones which no hobos dared to catch a ride upon.
King really should have checked that destination board.
The Polar Express was barreling straight towards Flat Top Tunnel, the tunnel that was a freight hopper's worst nightmare. It was a very narrow tunnel with only one inch of clearance - perhaps less, with the snow and ice that was beginning to pile up atop the Express - between the roof of the tunnel and the roof of the train thundering through it.
With the Express so slanted, and the snow and icy making it almost impossible to keep his footing, King knew he wouldn't make it to the caboose in time to clamber safely down and out of the way. His only option was to make it to the engine, which was at the front of the train.
With a burst of curse words that would have made even the hardest of sailors blush, King reached down and snatched up his skis, laying them out on the snow-covered roof and quickly placing his falling apart shoes onto them. As the train moved faster and faster, the tunnel coming closer and closer King's trembling fingers couldn't fasten his skis, and after a few moments of trying and failing King simply threw them aside and ran. He left everything, his hurdy-gurdy, his bindle with all his possessions inside, the skis he had treasured and kept safe fkr years, everything. He skidded down the train, his feet slipping on the icy surface and honestly falling down the train as much as he was running down it, jumping between the cars as he raced towards the engine.
As the pilot at the front of the train entered the tunnel, King made the jump from the front passenger car and landed on the back of the engine's roof. He knew that the low clearance of Flat Top Tunnel would not supply the necessary gap for him to fit between the top of the train and the roof of the tunnel, and that the train was moving far too fast for him to survive jumping from the side of it.
He had one shot at making it, and it was his only choice.
King jumped, diving down towards the engine and sucking in a breath in an attempt to flatten himself as much as possible as the arched entrance of the tunnel rushed to meet him, the train roaring and his heartbeat pounding in his ears -
He didn't make it.
And the last thing that King knew was pain, the last thing he registered was the agony of bones being crushed and flesh being torn as his body met the uncaring force that was stone and rock.
King opened his eyes.
The bright sun was shining directly into them, forcing him to raise a gloved hand to block it as he squinted and sat up.
"I thought..." King murmured, his mind a muddled mess of snow and tunnels and pain. He was confused and disoriented as he blinked away the black dots that the blinding sun had caused to form in his vision, "what happened to me?"
He felt... strange. He wasn't in pain, but he felt, disconnected, in a way. A little numb, as if he had been out in the cold for hours and stepped back inside to stand by the fire.
He was sitting on the top of the Polar Express, but it looked to be in a station, various groups chattering below him on the platform as they boarded the express.
"Maybe..." King frowned, trying to make sense of what had happened, "maybe it was a dream, a nightmare," as he tried to figure out what had happened to him King turned to look around, and jolted back in surprise, "woah!" he cursed, staring at the Conductor who was peering over the edge of the train's roof only a few feet away, the man's brow furrowed as he scanned the roof. For some reason, he didn't seem to have spotted King yet.
"Hey!"
The Conductor turned away as a voice came from the platform below, leaving King to blink owlishly at him.
"I don't see many conductors checking up there," a man casually called up to the Conductor, from the broom the man was carrying and his dirtied navy jumpsuit, King guess that he was the station's janitor, "checking for freight hoppers?"
If he was, he wasn't doing a great job. King was right in front of him.
"We had a hobo die last year, at Flat Top Tunnel," the Conductor gruffly said, "tragic accident, it was. And I'd like for it to not happen again."
...no.
King stilled, his eyes darting to the destination board. The date was listed at the very top of the board.
It was December 24th. It was Christmas Eve.
1934.
"...I see," the janitor nodded, his face grim, "sad thing, that. They're in a tough situation."
King reached out and waved his gloved hand in front of the Conductor's face, noting that his exposed fingertips weren't burning at the exposure to the chilled air.
King's stomach dropped.
The Conductor finished his examination of the train with a curt nod, his gaze passing through King without a pause, without any acknowledgement, and he left to complete the rest of his duties.
Unseen and unheard, King remained atop the train. His eyes were wide with horror, his jaw slackened in shock.
"I'm a..."
King was a ghost.