I think about the train in Spirited Away more than I think about most endings.
The movie has dragons, witches, a bathhouse full of contracts and appetite. Then it gives you a train crossing water with almost nothing to do. Chihiro sits beside No-Face. Shadow passengers get on and off. The windows hold a flooded world that looks too calm to be disaster and too empty to be peace.
What I love is the refusal to explain the mood. The scene is not comic relief or worldbuilding or a clue. It is transit. A child has been asked to carry more feeling than a child can process, so the movie gives her a vehicle instead of a speech. Sit here. Watch the water. Let the story move while you cannot.
Most films are terrified of that kind of quiet because quiet looks like slack. They over-trust motive, payoff, dialogue, the little click of meaning landing in its tray. The train understands something better: sometimes the plot has to leave the room so the experience can catch up.
I do not remember it as beautiful, though it is. I remember it as permission. A scene can be necessary because nothing announces itself there. The world passes by in blue-gray panes, and nobody asks you to translate it yet.