The subway was never supposed to be open after midnight. But on the night of the third Tuesday in October, a man named Elias found himself standing in the empty station, his breath visible in the cold air. The flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows on the cracked tiles, and the only sound was the distant hum of the train tracks, like a heartbeat echoing through the stone. Elias had been working late at the library, finishing up some research on forgotten folklore. He had taken the last train home, but when he stepped off the platform, the doors had already closed behind him. No one else was there. The ticket machine blinked with an error message, and the exit signs were dark. He walked down the tunnel, expecting to find another entrance, but the path ahead was sealed by a rusted gate. Confused, he turned back, only to find that the train had returned—empty, waiting for no one. He sat on the bench, trying to calm himself. The station felt different, as if time had stretched and folded in on itself. A soft whispering filled the air, not from any direction, but from everywhere at once. It was like the voices of people who had long since left the world, murmuring secrets they never meant to share. Then he saw her. She stood at the far end of the platform, her silhouette framed by the dim light. She wore a long, flowing coat, and her face was obscured by a veil of fog. She didn’t move, just stood there, watching him. Elias felt a chill crawl up his spine, but he didn’t run. Something about her presence was oddly familiar, like a memory he had never lived. When she finally moved, it was slow and deliberate. She stepped forward, each footfall echoing unnaturally in the silence. As she approached, the whispers grew louder, forming words he could almost understand. “You shouldn’t be here,” they said. “This place is not for the living.” Elias tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The woman stopped a few feet away, tilting her head as if listening. Then, without warning, she reached into her coat and pulled out a small, silver locket. It gleamed in the dim light, and as she opened it, a soft glow illuminated her face. For a brief moment, Elias saw something inside the locket—a picture of a man, identical to himself. The whispers stopped. The woman raised the locket toward him, then let it fall to the floor. It hit the tile with a metallic clink, and the moment it touched the ground, the entire station seemed to shudder. The lights flickered violently, and the temperature dropped so quickly that Elias could see his own breath turning to frost. He ran. He sprinted down the tunnel, his footsteps pounding against the concrete. Behind him, the woman’s voice called out, but he couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined. The tunnel stretched endlessly, and the walls seemed to close in. When he finally reached what he hoped was an exit, the door was gone. In its place was a mirror, reflecting the same empty station he had just left. In the mirror, he saw her again. This time, she was smiling. And beside her, standing in the reflection, was a younger version of himself—smiling back. The next morning, the station was reopened, but no one remembered the event. The employees said the power had gone out briefly, and the security cameras had recorded nothing. Elias went to the station again, but the platform was normal, the trains running on schedule. The only thing that remained was the locket, lying in the corner where he had found it, now tarnished and cold to the touch. He never told anyone what happened. But sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he wondered if the man staring back at him was truly him—or if he had simply been the echo of someone else’s story, waiting to be remembered.