In a city that prominently bears the “never sleeps” label, some find it curious that trains don’t run later into the night. Even on Friday evenings—when Tokyo’s office workers loosen their collars and momentarily shrug off the week’s demands—the final trains depart between midnight and 1:00 a.m. At Shinjuku Station, the Marunouchi Line is the first to wind down, with its last service at 12:15 a.m. Line by line, services taper off until the Yamanote Line carries its final passengers toward the loop’s outer edges at 12:44 a.m.

Commentators question why the city cannot mirror New York’s 24-hour subway or London’s Night Tube. At Shinjuku, however, the operations team is afforded less than four hours to return the station to its immaculate state—a narrow window framed by the night’s final departures and the first trains of the new day¹. Across the city, services begin to stir between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m.—with the JR Chūō Line to Tokyo departing Shinjuku at 4:32. It emphasises how little time is left to reset the mechanisms of the world’s busiest station. The network’s complexity renders round-the-clock service an elegant impossibility, even for its dedicated staff.

Some speculate that the absence of night trains serves the interests of the taxi industry—a means of directing stranded passengers into private cabs. Though this remains unproven, the last train does function as a temporal boundary with spatial consequences. For those living in a central ward, a taxi ride home is a short drive across town; for others, it spans prefectures—Tokyo’s commuter geography reaching deep into Saitama, Kanagawa, Chiba, and the residential fringes of western Tokyo. The cost of a taxi to these areas can come close to ¥20,000.

The junction of timetable and cost delineates who may remain in the city centre and who must depart, limiting late-night participation to those who can afford it—or those prepared to budget carefully until dawn. In this way, the city’s transit patterns reinforce a geography of inclusion and retreat.

The idea of extending weekend bus services resurfaces regularly, yet the last serious attempt dates back to December 2013. Under Governor Naoki Inose, Toei Bus trialled a 24-hour route linking Shibuya and Roppongi. Low passenger turnout, however, led to its muted discontinuation six months later to stem financial loss. Though the route was fundamentally different from one designed to carry late-night commuters home to their bedtowns, it is still cited as evidence that such services are unlikely to prove financially sustainable.

Policy inertia, regulatory constraints, and a long-standing emphasis on daytime maintenance over nighttime mobility have conspired to leave the late hours loosely served. Cultural tolerance for missed trains—and the emergence of private-sector alternatives—has allowed authorities to sidestep calls for infrastructural investment, without provoking public outcry.

Still, at ground level, all such perspectives feel academic as you rush through Shinjuku Station, the clock ticking, scrambling with a cluster of others in a shared urgency. For a moment, you believe you’ve made it—the orange of the Chūō Line’s carriages is visible ahead. But as you reach the platform, the doors slide shut with an unsympathetic finality. The hydraulic hiss of departure cuts through the air as the train eases into motion. The platform’s digital signboard flickers mockingly: 終電—shūden or “last train.”

Behind you, the station exhales. Staff guide the last of the night’s wanderers toward the exits while shutters rattle over unlit kiosks. The cleaning crew emerge like spectres; engineers in high-visibility vests assemble near the stairwells. A chime reverberates through the near-empty space, a gentle yet firm reminder: no more trains will come. Do not loiter. Moments ago a sea of movement, Shinjuku Station now resembles an abandoned mall. The departing train’s breeze brushes your face like a taunt. The night is long. The way home is uncertain.