The subway was never quiet, but on that particular evening, the usual hum of distant conversations and the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks had been replaced by an eerie stillness. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly, casting long shadows against the damp concrete walls. A few passengers sat in silence, eyes fixed on their phones or the floor, as if afraid to look up. It was a night like any other, except for the fact that no one could explain why the train had stopped running. The station was abandoned, yet not entirely empty. A man named Eli had been waiting for over an hour when he noticed the strange pattern on the tiles. They were arranged in a spiral, leading from the center of the platform toward the tunnel exit. He had seen such patterns before—once in a dream, once in a book about ancient symbols. But here, in the middle of the city's underground labyrinth, it felt wrong. Like something had been placed there intentionally. He took a step closer, and the air grew colder. A soft whisper echoed through the station, not loud enough to be understood, but close enough to send a shiver down his spine. He turned around, expecting to see someone behind him, but the platform was empty. Only the flickering lights and the faint smell of rust remained. As he walked toward the tunnel, the spiral seemed to shift underfoot, the tiles rearranging themselves slightly as he moved. The deeper he went, the more the world above faded. The sound of the city disappeared, replaced by the low, guttural hum of something unseen. At the end of the tunnel, a single door stood ajar, painted in a deep, unnatural blue. The handle was cold to the touch, and when he pulled it open, a rush of air hit him like a memory. Inside was a small room, lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were covered in drawings—people with elongated limbs, faces without eyes, and doors that led to nowhere. In the center of the room, a chair sat facing a mirror. The mirror was cracked, but the reflection inside wasn’t distorted. It showed a version of himself, smiling faintly, as if amused by his presence. Eli stepped back, heart pounding. He turned to leave, but the door had vanished. The corridor behind him was now a blank wall, smooth and unbroken. Panic set in, but then he heard it again—the whisper, this time clearer. It said, “You’re not lost. You’re just not ready.” He looked at the mirror again. His reflection raised a hand, then pointed to the chair. Slowly, he sat down. The moment his back touched the seat, the room began to change. The walls melted away, revealing a vast, endless space filled with floating staircases and shifting doorways. Each doorway pulsed with its own light, each one a different color, each one humming with a different sound. Eli’s breath caught in his throat. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he wasn’t alone. Something watched him from the edges of the space, something that didn’t belong to the world he knew. He tried to stand, but the chair held him in place. The whispers grew louder, forming words now, speaking to him in a language he almost understood. “Why did you come?” the voice asked. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice barely audible. “You always come,” the voice said. “But you never stay.” The mirror behind him reflected not his face, but a series of images—memories he didn’t remember having, scenes of places he had never been, people he had never met. And in the final reflection, he saw himself standing at the edge of the same tunnel, watching another version of him walk into the unknown. When he finally opened his eyes, he was back on the platform, the train just arriving. No one else seemed to notice anything unusual. The spiral had vanished, the door was gone, and the mirror was just a normal bathroom mirror. But as he stepped onto the train, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. Not in the world, but in him. And somewhere, deep beneath the city, the whispers waited for the next one to arrive.