The Last Train to Seri Setia

The morning sun spilled golden across the tracks as the LRT train hummed to life at KL Sentral. Nurul sat by the window, her fingers tracing the edge of her favorite notebook—the one with the peeling sticker of a durian wearing sunglasses. Inside, scribbled in looping blue ink, were lists: Top 10 Places in KL, Best Smelling Street Food, Things I’ll Miss Most.

Today was the last day she’d see them all.

Her family was moving to Penang in two days. “A fresh start,” her father had said, folding maps of George Town over dinner. “Better school. Cooler air. Closer to the sea.” But Nurul didn’t want cooler air. She wanted the sticky warmth of Brickfields at noon, the way the jasmine vines curled around the mosque gates, the sound of Tamil songs drifting from open shop doors.

So she had a plan.

One last ride. One final loop around the city that had raised her.

She gripped her red backpack—worn at the seams, stuffed with her notebook, a half-eaten roti canai wrapped in newspaper, and a tiny glass bottle filled with red sand from the Hindu temple courtyard. Her ticket was clutched in her other hand: Seri Setia – One Way (For Now).

The train rattled past Petaling Street, where the market stalls were just waking up. Plastic sheets flapped in the breeze. A man balanced three baskets of mangoes on his head like a tower. Nurul smiled. She remembered coming here with her grandmother every Chinese New Year, hunting for red packets and tiny lion dance figurines.

Next stop: Brickfields.

The doors hissed open. Nurul stepped out, and the familiar scent wrapped around her like a hug—cardamom, old paper, and something sweet she could never name. She walked down the narrow lane behind the station, past the sari shop with the peeling blue paint, until she reached the Indian bookstall under the bridge.

Mr. Ravi was already there, arranging books on a wooden crate. His white beard was dusted with chalk, and he wore the same faded green vest he always did.

“Nurul?” he said, squinting. “You’re not running late for school?”

“I’m not going today,” she said, smiling shyly. “We’re moving. To Penang.”

Mr. Ravi’s eyes softened. “Ah. The city gives, and the city takes. But it never forgets its children.”

He reached under the table and pulled out a small book—The Adventures of Maya the Monkey, in Malay and Tamil. “For you. So you remember where stories began for you.”

Nurul’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”

She tucked it into her bag and whispered, “Goodbye, Mr. Ravi.”

Back on the train, the city blurred past—glass towers, tangled wires, laundry flapping between flats. Her next stop: Pudu, under the old flyover where the durian seller waited like a king on a throne of crates.

She found him there, Mr. Hassan, with his wide straw hat and a radio playing old Malay ballads.

“Ah, the durian girl!” he boomed. “Come to say goodbye to the king of fruits?”

Nurul giggled. “Just one last sundae, please.”

He cracked open a small musang king, the golden flesh sweet and creamy. “On the house,” he said. “For a loyal customer. Who else eats durian at 10 a.m.?”

She savored every bite, letting the rich flavor fill her mouth. This was KL—bold, messy, unforgettable.

“Will you come back to visit?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll bring Penang laksa to trade for your durians.”

He laughed, and the sound bounced off the concrete.

The train wound on. She got off at Titiwangsa to feed the ducks at the lake, just like she did every Saturday with her little brother. She tossed breadcrumbs and whispered, “Tell the city I said hello.”

At Ampang Park, she bought a pink rose from the old flower lady who always winked and said, “For a future bride!” This time, the lady just smiled and said, “For a brave girl.”

By the time the train reached Seri Setia, the sky was painted in streaks of orange and lavender.

Nurul stepped off, the last passenger. The platform was quiet. A gecko skittered across the wall. Somewhere, a dog barked.

She opened her notebook and wrote:

Things I’ll Miss Most:

1. Mr. Ravi’s bookstall under the bridge.
2. Durian at 10 a.m. with Mr. Hassan.
3. The way the city smells after rain—wet concrete and fried bananas.
4. Feeding ducks who don’t care if you’re shy.
5. Feeling like I belong.

Then, underneath, she added:

But maybe… Penang will give me new things to love.
And one day, I’ll write a list called:
Things I’m Glad I Found.

She tucked the notebook back into her bag and took one last look at the city skyline, glittering in the distance.

KL wasn’t just a place.

It was her first best friend.

And friends don’t vanish—they live in stories, in tastes, in memories you carry like treasures.

The wind tugged at her hair as the next train arrived, empty and waiting.

Nurul took a deep breath.

Then she stepped forward—not with sadness, but with quiet courage.

Because growing up wasn’t about leaving everything behind.

It was about taking what mattered… and bringing it with you.

The End.