The first time I heard the story, it was whispered between two strangers at a coffee shop. I didn’t think much of it at the time—just another urban legend, like the one about the girl who died in the old library or the man who vanished in the subway. But as the weeks passed, I began to notice strange things. It started with the mirror in my apartment. I had bought it secondhand from a flea market, its frame dark and ornate, with tiny cracks running along the edges. The reflection always seemed slightly off, like a shadow of something just beyond the edge of my vision. I told myself it was just the lighting, but every time I looked into it, I felt a chill creep up my spine, even when the room was warm. Then came the phone calls. Not from anyone I knew. They would ring in the middle of the night, the number blocked, and when I answered, there was only silence. No voice, no breathing—just an eerie stillness that made me hang up immediately. I tried to convince myself it was a prank, but the calls kept coming, every three days, exactly at 3:03 a.m. I began to research the stories people told. There was one about a woman who saw her own reflection change into someone else’s face before she disappeared. Another about a man who found a key in his pocket that led him to a door he had never seen before, which opened into a corridor that ended in a wall of mirrors. And then there was the most famous one—the story of the "Echoing Station." It was said that if you boarded the last train of the night on Line 7 and sat in the third car, you would hear a voice calling your name. If you answered, the train would stop, and the doors would open to a platform that no longer existed. Those who entered were never seen again, but some claimed they returned, their eyes empty, speaking only in riddles. I decided to test the legend. That night, I took the last train, careful to sit in the third car. The train was nearly empty, save for a few sleeping figures. As we rolled through the tunnels, I noticed the lights flickering, casting long shadows on the walls. Then, the voice came. It was soft, almost like a whisper, but clear. “Ethan.” I turned, expecting to see someone behind me, but the car was empty. My heart pounded. I stayed seated, trying not to react. The voice called again, this time louder. “Ethan, come with me.” I forced myself to stay calm. Maybe it was just the wind, or a trick of the mind. But as the train slowed, the lights went out entirely. A cold gust of air swept through the car, and the doors slid open with a sound like a sigh. The platform beyond was dark, but I could see faint outlines of people standing in the distance, their faces obscured by mist. I stepped forward, unsure. The moment my foot touched the platform, the train doors closed behind me. The voice grew louder, more insistent. “You don’t belong here.” I turned, but the tunnel behind me was gone, replaced by a vast expanse of mirrors. Each one reflected a different version of me—some older, some younger, some with eyes that stared back without blinking. In the center of the room stood a door, slightly ajar. I approached it, my breath shallow. When I pushed it open, I found myself back in the train, the lights restored, the other passengers now awake and staring at me as if I had never left. No one remembered what happened, but I did. The next morning, I received a call from a friend who had heard the same story. He told me that the station had been demolished years ago, and no one remembered it ever existing. I checked the map, and sure enough, the line had been rerouted, the station erased from history. But the mirror in my apartment remained. And every night, at 3:03 a.m., the phone rang again. I never answered. But sometimes, when I looked into the mirror, I saw a figure standing behind me, its face blurred, its hand reaching toward me. And I wondered—was I the one being watched, or was I simply part of the story?