The 10th subway line was never supposed to exist. At least, that’s what the maps said. But every night at exactly 2:17 a.m., a train would appear on the platform, its doors opening with a soft hiss, as if it had been waiting for someone all along. No one knew where it went, or why it came. Most people ignored it, pretending they hadn’t seen the flicker of lights in the tunnel beyond the station’s usual end. Lena had always been a night owl. She worked the late shift at a diner near the station, and after her shift ended, she’d often take the last train home. One evening, as she stood alone on the platform, she noticed something strange. The usual 4:30 a.m. train was missing. Instead, a different one arrived—older, more rusted, with a faded logo that looked like it belonged to a city that no longer existed. The doors opened without warning, revealing a dimly lit car filled with passengers who didn’t seem to notice her. They were all dressed in old-fashioned clothes—wool coats, bowler hats, and long skirts. Their faces were pale, almost translucent, and their eyes followed her without blinking. Lena hesitated, but the train’s door was already closing. Without thinking, she stepped inside. The ride was silent. No announcements, no sounds of wheels on tracks. Just the occasional creak of metal and the faint scent of old paper and perfume. Lena sat near the back, trying not to make eye contact. The passengers didn’t speak, nor did they move much. It was as if they were frozen in time, trapped between two realities. After what felt like hours, the train stopped at a station she didn’t recognize. The sign above the platform read “Ashford,” but the name meant nothing to her. The doors opened again, and one of the passengers—a woman in a dark blue dress—stepped out. She turned to Lena, smiled, and said, “You’re not supposed to be here.” Lena’s heart pounded. “Where is here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The woman tilted her head. “You’ll find out soon enough.” Before Lena could respond, the train doors closed, and the car began to move again. This time, the lights flickered, and the air grew colder. The passengers began to murmur, their voices overlapping in a strange, rhythmic pattern. It sounded like a lullaby, but with a sinister undertone. When the train finally stopped again, Lena found herself standing on a platform that looked identical to the one she had left. The other passengers had vanished, and the train was gone. The only thing left was a small, folded piece of paper on the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it carefully. Inside was a single sentence written in elegant handwriting: “Some doors open only once.” She tried to retrace her steps, but the station had changed. The walls were now covered in old advertisements for businesses that no longer existed. A clock on the wall showed the time as 2:17 a.m.—the same time the mysterious train had arrived. Lena’s breath caught in her throat. She had been gone for only a few minutes, yet everything around her felt like it had aged decades. Over the next few weeks, Lena kept an eye out for the strange train. She told no one about her experience, afraid they would think she was losing her mind. But each night, she waited by the platform, hoping to see it again. Sometimes, she saw shadows moving in the tunnels, or heard whispers in the silence. Once, she thought she saw the same woman in the blue dress, watching from the edge of the platform. One night, the train appeared again. This time, Lena didn’t hesitate. She stepped onto the car, feeling the familiar chill and the weight of unseen eyes. As the train moved, she noticed something different. The passengers were still there, but now they seemed to be looking at her—not with indifference, but with recognition. At the next stop, the doors opened, and this time, the woman in the blue dress was waiting. “You’ve come back,” she said softly. “That means you’re ready.” Lena didn’t know what to say. Before she could ask anything, the train lurched forward, and the world around them blurred. When the lights returned, the station was gone. In its place was a vast, empty space filled with floating lights and echoes of laughter. The passengers began to fade, their forms dissolving into the air. The woman turned to Lena one last time. “You will remember this, but you will forget why it matters.” Then she too was gone. Lena woke up on the platform, the morning sun peeking through the windows. Her watch showed 8:00 a.m. She had no memory of how she got there, but the paper with the message was still in her pocket. She looked down at it, now blank, as if it had never been there at all. And yet, deep inside, she knew something had changed. Something she couldn’t explain, but couldn’t forget.