It was one of those evenings that felt ordinary until it wasn’t. The kitchen was alive with the clinking of silverware and the soft hum of conversation, the kind of comforting noise that made home feel like home. The table was crowded with plates of spaghetti and garlic bread, steam rising in swirls, and the faint scent of oregano lingering in the air.

I was perched on my usual seat, legs swinging beneath the table as I tore into a piece of garlic bread. My sister sat across from me, glued to her book. At 16, she was in that phase where everything Mom and Dad said was either mildly annoying or profoundly uncool.

Dad, on the other hand, was in a mood. I could tell. He had that mischievous grin, the one that meant he had news he was itching to share.

“Well,” he said, setting his fork down with a theatrical flourish. “I hope you’re all ready for an adventure.”

I stopped mid-chew, my eyes narrowing. “What kind of adventure?”

He leaned back in his chair, the grin spreading wider. “Next week, we’re riding the auto-train to Florida!”

I froze, garlic bread in hand, as if someone had just pressed pause on the moment. My brain scrambled to make sense of the words. “The what?”

“The auto-train!” Dad repeated, as if the words alone should explain everything.

My sister didn’t even glance up from her book. “That’s not a thing,” she said flatly, her tone drenched in teenage skepticism.

“Oh, it’s a thing,” Dad replied, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a train that carries people and their cars. We’ll drive the car onto it, ride the train down to Florida, and then pick it up when we get there.”

I blinked, trying to process this. “Wait. The car goes on the train? Like, inside it?”

“Yes,” Mom said, smiling as she placed another plate of garlic bread on the table. “It’s on the bottom level. We’ll be riding on the top.”

“How does it fit?” I asked, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Doesn’t it fall off? What if they lose it?”

“They’re not going to lose it,” Dad said, laughing. “It’s designed for this. The cars are all lined up, and they stay put the whole time.”

My sister rolled her eyes. “That sounds… weird.”

“Weird,” I agreed, but my voice was buzzing with excitement. “But awesome!”

“How fast does it go?”

“Do we get to sit wherever we want?”

“Is there a snack car?!”

I couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like. In my head, the train was enormous, like something out of a movie. I pictured our car strapped down with giant seatbelts, rolling along the tracks as if it were just another passenger. And Florida was, to me, like an exotic paradise, full of palm trees, beaches, and endless sunshine.

My sister, meanwhile, was trying to maintain her air of detached coolness, but I caught her sneaking a few questions when she thought no one was paying attention.

“So, like, are there beds on the train?” she asked, poking at her spaghetti with her fork.

“There are sleeping compartments.” Dad said.

Her face fell slightly. “Great. So I’m stuck sleeping next to him the whole time?” She gestured vaguely in my direction.

“Hey!” I said, glaring at her. “I’m fun sleep next to.”

“Sure,” she said, smirking. “If you like constant chatter and crumbs everywhere.”

“Enough,” Mom said, cutting off the bickering with a single look.

By the time dinner ended, I was practically vibrating with excitement. My mind was already racing with plans: what to pack, what books to bring, and which snacks would be the best for a train ride.

Mom, ever the organizer, was way ahead of me. She cleared the table and immediately started jotting down a list. “We’ll need snacks, comfortable clothes for the train, and something to keep you both entertained. You’ll need to pack headphones, a book, and—”

“Mom, I’m not five,” my sister interrupted.

“Then pack like you’re sixteen,” Mom shot back, not missing a beat.

Dad, meanwhile, was diving into logistics mode. He disappeared into the den to dig out a stack of maps, flipping through them with the intensity of someone plotting a cross-country trek. “We need to be at the station early,” he called out. “They’ll start loading cars by 9 a.m., and we don’t want to get stuck at the back of the line.”

“Do we have assigned seats?” I asked, following him into the room.

“They’ll give us tickets when we check in,” he said, tracing a route with his finger. “You’ll have to share a window seat, though. Can’t have both of you hogging the view.”

I groaned. Sharing anything with my sister was a recipe for disaster.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, my mind racing with anticipation. I tried to imagine what the train would look like inside—how big it would be, how it would sound, and whether I’d be able to explore every car. Would there be a snack cart like in the movies? Would the train whistle sound like the ones in cartoons?

I rolled over and grabbed my notebook, flipping to a blank page. At the top, I scrawled “Auto-Train Adventure!” and started making a list of everything I wanted to do:

Sit by the window. Explore the whole train. Buy a snack from the dining car. Look out the window at night and see the stars. Make my sister talk to me (hardest challenge). I added a few doodles in the margins—a little stick-figure train, some squiggly lines for tracks—before setting the notebook aside and finally falling asleep.

The next morning, the countdown began in earnest. Every time I walked into the kitchen, Dad was at the table with his maps and the train schedule, muttering things like “buffer time” and “traffic patterns.” Mom was in full packing mode, neatly folding clothes into suitcases and organizing snacks into labeled bags.

“Do we really need that much food?” my sister asked, watching as Mom packed yet another zip-top bag of trail mix.

“Train food is expensive,” Mom said. “You’ll thank me later.”

Meanwhile, I was busy packing my own bag, which was quickly turning into an overstuffed disaster. I wanted to bring everything. My radio, my favorite book series, my new notebook, colored pencils, my lucky pen, three different snacks, and my stuffed rabbit (just in case).

“Do you really need all that?” my sister asked, leaning against the doorframe of my room.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “It’s for emergencies.”

She rolled her eyes. “What kind of emergency requires colored pencils?”

The days leading up to the trip were a blur of excitement and activity. Our house, usually calm and orderly, had turned into a chaotic staging ground for our impending adventure. Suitcases sprawled open on every available surface, their contents spilling out like secrets waiting to be packed away.

Mom had taken over the living room, turning it into her personal command center. She stood over the coffee table with a checklist in hand, inspecting each item before it was deemed worthy of inclusion in the suitcases.

“Comfortable shoes for the train,” she muttered, checking off the item as she placed a neatly folded pair of sneakers into the pile. “Snacks—nothing too messy. Headphones for both of you. And don’t forget your toothbrushes!”

“I’ll pack mine later,” my sister called from her room, her voice dripping with the carefree tone of someone who hadn’t even started packing yet.

I was in my bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by a mountain of potential travel companions. My favorite books formed a precarious stack next to me, and my stuffed rabbit sat proudly at the top like a benevolent ruler.

Mom popped her head into my room and surveyed the scene with a look that was equal parts amusement and concern. “You don’t need to bring everything you own,” she said, folding her arms.

“I’m deciding,” I said, picking up a paperback and holding it up for inspection. “What if I finish this one and need this one, and then I run out of books altogether?”

“We’ll be gone two weeks, not a year,” Mom said, laughing. “Choose three.”

“Three?!” I clutched the stack dramatically, as if she’d just asked me to abandon my closest friends.

Meanwhile, my sister was operating at her own speed. She had her headphones on and her radio balanced precariously on her dresser as she casually tossed clothes into a bag. From the hallway, I could hear snippets of music leaking through her headphones, mixed with her occasional exasperated sighs.

“Do you even care about this trip?” I asked, standing in her doorway.

She glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “Of course I care. I just don’t need to freak out about it like you do.”

“I’m not freaking out,” I said, though my voice betrayed me.

“You’re literally standing there holding a stuffed rabbit and arguing about books.”

“This rabbit is lucky,” I shot back, clutching it to my chest. “And you’ll be jealous when I’m reading and having good luck on the train.”

She smirked. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, I saw it. The auto-train.

It was enormous. I had expected it to be big, but this… this was like nothing I’d ever seen. The silver train cars stretched farther than I could count, a gleaming metal snake coiled along the tracks. The top level glinted in the early morning sun, and the lower level, where the cars were being loaded, buzzed with activity.

“Whoa,” I whispered, my face practically pressed against the car window.

Beside me, my sister glanced up from her book just long enough to take it in. “It’s a train,” she said, her voice as unimpressed as possible, though I noticed her eyes lingering on it for a few extra seconds.

“It’s huge,” I said, not caring that she was trying to play it cool.

Cars were lined up in neat rows, slowly inching forward as they were guided onto the train’s lower level. The whole operation looked impossibly precise. Men in bright vests directed traffic, motioning to drivers as each car disappeared into the belly of the train.

“Where do they all go?” I asked, leaning forward so far that my seatbelt strained against my chest.

“They park them inside,” Dad said, pulling into the line for vehicle check-in. “It’s like a giant moving garage.”

I tried to picture it—a dark, cavernous space filled with rows and rows of cars, each one tucked neatly into its spot like sardines in a can. It seemed both magical and slightly unsettling. What if they got the cars mixed up? What if ours ended up on a completely different train?

“Do they ever lose cars?” I asked nervously.

“No,” Dad said firmly. “They’ve been doing this a few times. Trust me, they’ve got it down to a science.”

“Still seems sketchy,” my sister muttered, but I could tell she was just trying to get under my skin.

When it was finally our turn to pull up to the check-in point, I practically vibrated with excitement. A uniformed attendant approached our car, clipboard in hand, and Dad rolled down the window to hand over our tickets.

“Okay, folks,” the attendant said cheerfully. “You’re all set. Once you unload your luggage and passengers, we’ll take it from here.”

I glanced at my sister, suddenly nervous about leaving our car behind. “Do they, like, know where it’s going?” I whispered.

“They know,” she said, rolling her eyes.

We pulled into a designated unloading area, and Mom opened the trunk to grab the suitcases. I hopped out of the car, craning my neck to watch as other vehicles disappeared into the train. A sleek red sports car caught my eye, its headlights flashing as it rolled up the ramp.

“Cool,” I muttered to myself.

Dad drove the car forward as we stood on the curb, waving to us before joining the line of vehicles waiting to board. Watching our car inch closer to the train was surreal. It looked so small compared to the massive structure looming above it.

“What if it gets stuck?” I asked, clutching my backpack like a security blanket.

“It won’t get stuck,” Mom said, patting my shoulder.

“Or worse,” my sister added, smirking. “What if it falls off the train halfway there?”

I shot her a glare. “It’s not going to fall off!”

“Enough,” Mom said sharply.

We watched as our car rolled up the ramp and disappeared inside the train. For a moment, I felt a strange pang of separation, like saying goodbye to an old friend.

“Where do you think they put it?” I asked, staring at the dark opening where the car had vanished.

“In a safe spot,” Dad said, returning from the check-in area with our tickets. He handed each of us a boarding pass, the thick cardstock feeling official in my hands.

Inside the station, the atmosphere was completely different. It was buzzing with energy, a mix of families, couples, and solo travelers all waiting to board. The faint scent of coffee wafted from a small café in the corner, and the sound of distant announcements echoed over the loudspeakers.

I clutched my ticket tightly as we made our way through the crowd. There were people everywhere—kids my age running around with juice boxes, older couples chatting quietly, and even a man with a parrot perched on his shoulder. I stared at the bird, my mouth hanging open.

“Don’t gawk,” Mom whispered, nudging me forward.

“But he has a parrot,” I hissed, glancing back over my shoulder.

“Maybe it’s his emotional support parrot,” my sister said dryly.

At the boarding area, we found seats near a large window that overlooked the tracks. I pressed my nose to the glass, watching as the train crew continued loading cars. The metallic clang of wheels on rails echoed faintly through the station, a sound that felt both strange and comforting.

A boy about my age plopped down in the seat next to me, holding a Game Boy type thing. He glanced at me briefly before turning his attention back to the tiny screen, furiously pressing buttons as a tinny beeping sound filled the air.

“What game is that?” I asked, leaning over to get a better look.

“Cachinker” he said without looking up.

“Oh, cool,” I said, pretending to know what he was talking about.

My sister snickered from a few seats away, clearly amused by my awkward attempt at conversation.

When the announcement finally came that it was time to board, my heart skipped a beat. I grabbed my backpack and practically sprinted to the gate, earning an exasperated sigh from my sister as she trailed behind.

The train loomed even larger up close, its metal exterior gleaming in the sunlight. The entrance was narrow, with steep metal steps leading up into the passenger cars. I clutched the handrail tightly as I climbed aboard, the cool metal slick under my palm.

Inside, the train felt like a different world. The air smelled faintly of upholstery and something metallic, and the soft hum of the engine vibrated beneath my feet. The seats were arranged in rows, each one wide and cushy with a small tray table tucked into the back.

“This is so cool,” I whispered, sliding into my seat by the window.

“It’s just a train,” my sister said, flopping down beside me.

“It’s not just a train,” I insisted, my voice filled with awe. “It’s the auto-train.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

“This,” I whispered to myself, “is going to be the best trip ever.”

The train jolted forward with a shudder that sent a ripple of excitement through me. It wasn’t the smooth, quiet acceleration of a car or a plane—this was raw and mechanical, a powerful lurch that reminded me of the size and strength of the machine we were riding.

My sister and I both leaned into the window as the station slid out of view, the tracks beneath us clanging rhythmically as the train picked up speed. For a moment, everything outside seemed ordinary—the backs of warehouses, long stretches of track surrounded by gravel, and chain-link fences lined with weeds. But soon, the scenery began to change.

First, there were neighborhoods, rows of houses with small backyards that zipped by too quickly for me to make out any details. Then came the open fields, vast expanses of green dotted with the occasional barn or grazing cow.

“Look! A horse!” I exclaimed, pointing as a small group of them came into view.

My sister rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to point out everything, you know.”

“I’m just saying,” I muttered, though my excitement wasn’t dampened in the slightest.

The sunlight streamed through the window, warm and golden, casting flickering shadows on the tray table in front of me. I placed my hand flat on the surface, watching as the light played over my fingers. There was something magical about the way the world looked from a train—always moving, always changing.

After the initial thrill of departure, I turned my attention to our seats. They were wide and cushioned, with far more legroom than I was used to on planes. A small tray table folded down in front of me, and a netted pouch on the seat back held a crinkled magazine and a safety card.

“Are we just supposed to sit here the whole time?” I asked, twisting around to face my parents, who were seated behind us.

“You can get up and stretch your legs,” Dad said, leaning forward. “Just don’t wander too far.”

“Define ‘too far,’” I said, grinning.

My sister sighed dramatically. “You’re going to make this unbearable, aren’t you?”

“I’m just having fun,” I said, refusing to let her sarcasm bother me.

She pulled out her headphones and shoved them into her ears, signaling the end of the conversation.

It didn’t take long before I couldn’t sit still any longer. The train felt like a giant maze, and I was determined to explore every inch of it.

“Can we walk around?” I asked, practically bouncing in my seat.

“Not alone,” Mom said.

“Take your sister,” Dad added.

I groaned, glancing at her. “Do I have to?”

“Do I have to?” she echoed, pulling out one headphone and glaring at me.

“Yes,” Mom said firmly.

Reluctantly, we set off together, though it was clear from the way she trudged along behind me that she was less than thrilled about the arrangement.

The narrow hallway between cars was both thrilling and slightly terrifying. The floor swayed beneath my feet as the train rumbled along, and I clutched the handrails tightly as I made my way forward.

“Don’t fall,” my sister said dryly.

“Thanks for the advice,” I shot back, taking exaggerated, careful steps just to annoy her.

The first car we entered was the dining car. It smelled amazing—like coffee, warm bread, and something sweet that made my stomach growl. Tables with white cloths were arranged neatly along one side, and a small counter at the far end served as the snack bar. A man in a crisp uniform stood behind it, pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup for an elderly woman.

“Can we get something?” I asked, craning my neck to see the menu.

“We just ate,” my sister said, pulling me back by the arm.

“But we’re on a train!”

“Later,” she said, dragging me toward the next car.

The lounge car was easily my favorite. It was bright and airy, with large windows that curved up onto the roof, giving a panoramic view of the scenery outside. Plush seats were arranged in small groups, and a handful of passengers were scattered throughout, reading, chatting, or simply staring out the windows.

“Whoa,” I said, stepping inside.

“Cool, huh?” my sister said, surprising me with her agreement.

I plopped down in one of the seats and pressed my face to the glass. The view was incredible—rolling fields, winding rivers, and dense clusters of trees that seemed to stretch forever. Occasionally, we passed a small town, its streets quiet and still as we zipped by.

“This is the best,” I said, turning to my sister.

“It’s not bad,” she admitted, pulling out her camera to snap a picture of the view.

For a moment, the two of us sat in comfortable silence, watching the world go by.

As the hours passed, I began to notice the other people on the train. In the lounge car, a group of kids about my age were playing cards at one of the tables. I watched them for a while, debating whether to go over and introduce myself, but before I could work up the nerve, they packed up their game and left.

In the dining car, I overheard snippets of conversations as I passed by. An older couple was talking about their grandchildren. A woman in a bright pink jacket was telling her companion about a trip she had just returned from.

Back in our seats, I noticed the boy with the Game Boy from earlier. He was still glued to his screen, the faint sound of beeping drifting over every few seconds.

“What level are you on?” I asked, leaning over the back of his seat.

He glanced up briefly. “Fifth.”

“Oh, uh, cool,” I said, even though I had no idea what that meant.

“You don’t play this, do you?” he asked, smirking.

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Well, you should,” he said, returning to his game.

As the afternoon wore on, I alternated between wandering the train and sitting by the window, watching the scenery shift. Fields gave way to forests, and forests to small towns, each one a fleeting blur of rooftops and winding streets.

At one point, we crossed a massive bridge, the train clicking loudly over the metal tracks as water sparkled far below. I leaned so far into the window that my breath fogged up the glass.

“Are you seriously still staring out the window?” my sister asked.

“Yes,” I said, not bothering to look away.

She sighed and pulled out her book, flipping it open with exaggerated boredom.

When my mother finally decided it was time for dinner, I nearly jumped out of my seat with excitement. Eating on a train felt like the kind of thing people did in books or movies, and I couldn’t wait to experience it myself.

“Come on,” I said, tugging at my sister’s sleeve. “Let’s go!”

“Calm down,” she muttered, reluctantly getting up. “It’s just food.”

But it wasn’t just food—it was food on a train.

The dining car was already bustling when we arrived. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm bread hit me the moment I stepped inside, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the train. Waiters in crisp white shirts moved gracefully between tables, balancing trays of steaming dishes as the train swayed gently beneath their feet.

We were led to a small table near the window, where a white tablecloth and a neatly folded napkin made the setting feel surprisingly fancy. I slid into my seat and immediately reached for the menu, my eyes scanning the options.

“They have spaghetti!” I announced, thrilled to see my favorite food on the list.

“Of course they do,” my sister said, rolling her eyes.

Mom ordered a chicken dish, Dad opted for steak, and my sister—predictably—chose a salad. I stuck with the spaghetti, unable to resist the lure of something familiar and comforting.

When the food arrived, I couldn’t help but stare. The plate was set in front of me with a flourish, the pasta glistening under a light coating of tomato sauce. It wasn’t exactly gourmet, but it looked—and smelled—amazing.

“Careful,” Mom said as I eagerly twirled a forkful of spaghetti. “Don’t spill it on yourself.”

I was too excited to heed her warning, and within minutes, I had managed to splatter tiny drops of sauce onto my shirt.

“Told you,” my sister said, smirking.

After dinner, we wandered back to the lounge car. The atmosphere had shifted since earlier in the day—quieter, more relaxed, with fewer people and a warm glow from the overhead lights.

I found a seat by one of the big windows, where the world outside was bathed in the soft hues of twilight. The sun was setting, its golden rays stretching across the fields and casting long shadows over the trees.

“Do you think we’ll see stars?” I asked, pressing my face to the glass.

“Probably,” my sister said, settling into the seat next to me with her book.

For a while, we sat in comfortable silence, watching the landscape fade into darkness. Here and there, the lights of small towns dotted the horizon, flickering like fireflies. I imagined the people living in those towns, going about their evenings without any idea that a massive train was passing by.

“Do you think anyone ever looks out their window and sees us?” I asked.

“Maybe,” my sister said without looking up from her book.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels was hypnotic, and I found myself relaxing into the seat, my mind wandering as the stars began to appear.

As the train rumbled on, I began to notice a few familiar faces among the other passengers. The boy with the Game Boy had moved to the lounge car, where he was now sitting with a group of kids playing cards. I watched them from a distance, debating whether to join in.

“Just go talk to them,” my sister said, catching me staring.

“What if they don’t want me to?” I asked nervously.

“They’re not going to bite,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Just go.”

Summoning my courage, I walked over to the group. “Hi,” I said, trying not to sound as awkward as I felt. “What are you playing?”

“Uno,” one of the boys said, shuffling the deck.

“Want to join?” the Game Boy kid asked, motioning to an empty seat.

I nodded eagerly, sliding into the chair and picking up a hand of cards. For the next hour, we played round after round, laughing and joking as the train rocked gently beneath us. By the time I returned to my family’s seats, I felt like I’d made new friends—and a small but important victory over my shyness.

As the train settled into its nighttime rhythm, the atmosphere grew quieter. Passengers who had been chatty and energetic earlier in the day now spoke in hushed tones or nodded off in their seats. The lights inside the train dimmed, casting everything in a soft, golden glow.

I was still wide awake, too excited to sleep. The idea of falling asleep on a moving train felt like a waste—I didn’t want to miss a single moment of the journey.

From my window, the world outside was almost entirely dark, except for the occasional flicker of light from a passing town or highway. The stars were out in full force, scattered across the sky like glittering jewels. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, marveling at their brilliance.

“Come on, it’s bedtime,” Mom said, gently tugging on my arm.

“Just a little longer,” I pleaded.

“You’ll have plenty of time to look out the window tomorrow,” she said, smiling.

Reluctantly, I followed her back to our seats, where my sister was already curled up with a blanket and her headphones. I climbed into my seat and pulled my own blanket over me, the soft hum of the train lulling me into a state of drowsy contentment.

As I drifted off, the steady clatter of the train wheels echoed in my ears, a soothing rhythm that felt like the heartbeat of the journey itself.

The morning arrived with a subtle jolt as the train slowed to a crawl, and I woke to the muffled sound of the wheels clicking over the tracks. For a moment, I was disoriented—the hum of the train, the soft golden light streaming through the window, and the faint rustle of other passengers stirring around me felt like a dream. Then I remembered where I was, and a jolt of excitement shot through me.

“We’re here!” I whispered loudly, shaking my sister’s arm.

She groaned, pulling the blanket over her head. “Not yet,” she mumbled.

But I couldn’t sit still. I pushed the blanket aside and pressed my face to the window. Outside, the world looked completely different from the one we’d left behind. Palm trees lined the horizon, their fronds swaying gently in the breeze. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds that looked like they belonged in a painting.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” I chanted, tugging on my sister’s arm again.

“Stop,” she groaned, sitting up with a scowl. “You’re so annoying.”

“Hey” Mom said, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of a mother who had just woken up. “It’s too early for fighting.”

As the train inched closer to the station, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the window. Everything felt brighter, warmer, and more alive. The palm trees stood tall against the sky, and the roads outside the train glistened in the morning sun as cars zipped by.

“We’re definitely in Florida,” Dad said from behind me, leaning forward to catch a glimpse out the window.

“How can you tell?” I asked, still staring at the unfamiliar landscape.

“Palm trees,” he said simply.

The train came to a halt with a soft hiss of brakes, and the murmur of passengers grew louder as people began to gather their belongings. Suitcases thumped softly onto the floor, and the faint hum of conversation filled the air.

I stood up and stretched, my legs stiff from sitting for so long. “What do we do now?” I asked, glancing at my parents.

“Now we wait,” Dad said, stifling a yawn.

“For what?”

“For the cars to unload,” he explained.

I groaned dramatically, flopping back into my seat. “How long does that take?”

“As long as it takes,” Mom said, handing me my backpack. “Why don’t you make sure you didn’t forget anything?”

I checked under my seat and in the seat pocket, though I already knew I hadn’t left anything behind. My sister, of course, hadn’t even bothered to unpack her bag, and she sat looking at her book with the same bored expression she’d had when we first boarded.

When it was finally time to exit the train, I was practically bouncing with excitement. We shuffled down the narrow aisle with the other passengers, the soft scuff of footsteps blending with the occasional murmur of conversation.

Stepping off the train felt like emerging into another world. The air was warm and humid, carrying the faint scent of salt and something floral that I couldn’t quite place. The sky above was impossibly blue, and the station buzzed with activity as workers guided cars off the train and onto a designated unloading area.

“Look at all the cars!” I exclaimed, pointing as a shiny black SUV rolled off the train.

“They’re unloading them one by one,” Dad explained, gesturing toward the crew. “It’s a very precise operation.”

I watched, fascinated, as each car was guided carefully down a ramp and into the waiting area. The workers moved with practiced efficiency, their bright orange vests glinting in the sunlight as they waved the vehicles forward.

“Where’s our car?” I asked, craning my neck to see farther down the line.

“Be patient,” Mom said.

“But what if they forgot it?”

“They didn’t forget it,” she said firmly.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I spotted our car rolling off the train. Its familiar blue paint and slightly dented bumper looked strangely out of place among the rows of pristine vehicles around it, but to me, it was like seeing an old friend.

“There it is!” I shouted, pointing excitedly.

Watching our car roll toward us was oddly satisfying. The worker driving it waved cheerfully as he brought it to a stop, stepping out and handing Dad the keys.

“Here you go, folks,” he said with a smile.

Dad thanked him and opened the door, inspecting the interior as if to make sure everything was still where we had left it.

“See?” Mom said, giving me a knowing look. “Nothing to worry about.”

I grinned, relieved to see that even the granola bar I had left in the cupholder was still intact.

“Can we go now?” my sister asked, leaning against the car with her arms crossed.

“Soon,” Dad said, loading the suitcases into the trunk.

As we pulled out of the station and onto the sunlit road, I couldn’t stop looking out the window. The palm trees lined the streets like welcoming sentinels, their fronds swaying gently in the breeze. The air felt different here—warmer, thicker, and tinged with the scent of the ocean.

“This is so cool,” I said, pressing my face to the glass.

“It’s just Florida,” my sister said, though I noticed her taking a picture of the scenery.

“It’s not just Florida,” I replied, grinning. “It’s our adventure.”

Dad chuckled from the driver’s seat. “That’s the spirit.”

As we drove farther from the station, the memories of the train ride lingered in my mind. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels, the soft glow of the lounge car at night, and the endless stretch of tracks that had carried us here—it all felt like part of something bigger, a journey that had been just as important as the destination itself.

And as the car rolled down the sun-dappled road, I knew one thing for sure: this was a trip I would never forget.