The Stories of the Passersby – A Fable of Trains, Shadows, and the Afterlife

It happened on a snowy December morning, as I made my way slowly to the train station. Craiova was blanketed in a shimmering coat of white, transformed into something ancient and timeless. Though once the proud capital of Oltenia, where Wallachian Bans ruled with grandeur, it now lay hushed beneath the snow, a “small” city of over 200,000 hard-working souls preparing for Christmas.

The streets were quiet. As I walked, nearly chanting the lines of Beowulf to myself—a poem I had always loved—I noticed odd things: dogs howling, cats huddling together in corners, their eyes alert and wide. I shrugged.

“Never mind, they always act strange in the cold,” I muttered, and crossed the street.

At the train station, the bustle of voices filled the air. Children began to sing carols—yes, Zoriile, the morning songs. I stood still, enchanted, until the train pulled in and I boarded.

I was heading to Deva, and my seat was by the window. A man rushed in and dropped heavily into the seat beside me. I checked my ticket—yes, this was correct.

He was dressed… strangely. A tall green hat, a long green coat, boots laced tightly. He looked like a character from a fairy tale—like a forgotten noble or a magician in disguise.

I opened my worn copy of Beowulf again. It wasn’t a leather-bound edition, just one I cherished. But at Cernele Station, the stranger leaned toward me.

“A fine day for a journey, isn’t it?”

“It could be finer,” I replied politely.

“Where are you headed, friend?”

“To Deva. Quite far.”

“Ah! What a coincidence. I’m going to Simeria. We’ll be fellow travelers a while longer. I don’t often see anyone reading Beowulf. What do you think of it?”

“It’s a strange book. The author is unknown. Every translation changes it. No two editions are the same.”

He smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve read it for hundreds of years—and I still find something new each time.”

That sentence startled me.

He continued, voice low and mysterious. “Tell me, have you ever read Raizel’s Code or The Little Red Book?”

“No, I’ve never even heard of them.”

“They are about everything… and nothing. Would you like to hear a story from Raizel’s Code?”

I nodded, and he began.

The Tale from Raizel’s Code

Long before Earth existed, in the Kingdom of the Clouds, the elemental beings—Dust, Dawn, and Light—met to decide the fate of the Sea and the Ground.

“Shall we let them create their own kingdom?” asked Dawn.

“Yes,” said Dust. “Let’s allow them to begin anew.”

And so, Earth was born. But it was barren. To populate it, Dust created animals, and then three Shadows, to rule over them.

But one of the shadows came to his creators and said:

“Let me create a race of free-willed beings. I will play a game with them—a game for your amusement. I will give them a glimpse of my power, craft three true rules, and countless false ones. They will live and die chasing an afterlife, unaware that this world is the true wonder.”

The others agreed, amused.

So, humans were born. The shadow nurtured them and eventually granted great powers to nine disciples: Ziro, Maher, Gaspar, Malachite, Meier, Flavius, Marcus, Eneris, and Miles. But the ninth, Miles, was clever—perhaps too clever.

One night, the shadow appeared to him.

“Why do you call so desperately?”

“I must see you before my life ends.”

“I am no master—I am like you, only immortal.”

But with that, chains rose from the air, and Miles imprisoned the shadow in a coffin of lead. The other shadows came to rescue him—but Miles turned one into a rose bush, the other into a silver coffin.

He became ruler of the shadow-made world.

In the clouds, the creators watched.

“What has he done?” Sea whispered. “This game has gone too far.”

Before they could act, the second shadow appeared, unbound.

“Let me judge humanity. I was born of water. Miles cannot trap me. I escaped the rose bush and left behind a false body.”

The creators named him Riva, and granted him a new mission—along with three kings and three queens made of stone and crystal to accompany him.

The Game of the Kings and the Rose Wine

Back on Earth, Miles encountered the mysterious kings and queens.

“Welcome, travelers,” he greeted them. “Where are you headed?”

“To Balazar,” said the first king. “We seek fragrant roses to make jam—more valuable than gold.”

“And your names?”

“I am Raizel. These are my brothers, Cadis and Cain. Our sisters—Her, Liviv, and Lily—are the queens.”

They smiled knowingly. “We know who you are, Miles.”

“How?”

“In Balazar’s market, a girl reads glass rings. She sees you ruling this world.”

“Impossible,” Miles laughed nervously. “I’m just a poor monk.”

“Then surely you won’t mind tasting my rose wine—the drink of kings. It revives the weary and enchants the soul.”

Miles hesitated. “No, thank you. I’ll have coffee—seeds I bought from three old women.”

He took a sip… and in a flash, Riva appeared.

“You brought this on yourself,” she said. “Coffee is the water of forgetfulness. My king tried to save you—but now, you are mine.”

In that moment, Miles fell into a rose bed, bound and trapped, just like the shadows before him. His prison became a judgment of his own actions—a place of reflection and eternity.

Raizel then created new societies—of elves, deerhounds, lepers, and guardians who ruled the Bank of Souls in Alexandria, guiding the balance of the living and the dead.

Return to the Station

“That was a good story,” I said.

“What if Miles had chosen the wine instead of coffee?” I asked.

“Perhaps love would’ve made him less selfish. Perhaps he would’ve been saved,” the man said.

I turned to look down the corridor. But when I turned back—he was gone.

Just a single silver coin remained on his seat.

When I disembarked, I found myself in a village unfamiliar to me. And there… waiting by the road… was my grandmother.

“Granny? But you’re gone—you died two years ago.”

She smiled softly. “Don’t be silly. You died forty-nine days ago, sweetheart. I came to greet you.”

“I’m… dead?”

“Dying erases your memory of life, just for a while. But don’t be afraid. You’ve always believed in wonder and kindness. That is what saved you.”

“Why am I safe, Granny? Others aren’t.”

“Because you created your own world. A universe shaped by the morals of your soul. Your lack of selfishness gave you light.”

“Where are we going now?”

She smiled, her hand in mine.

“Home, my dear. We’re going home.”

And that is how I came to rule a world made of stories, belief, and love—my own little kingdom, beyond time and space.
And perhaps, that is all that matters now.

Moral of the Story

Our beliefs shape our destiny. A soul filled with wonder, love, and humility creates a universe of peace—both in life and beyond. The stories we tell and the choices we make echo in the world we leave behind.