The subway station had always felt different after midnight. Not in a way that made people run, but in a way that made them pause, as if the air itself was holding its breath. Most of the regular riders didn’t notice it—just the usual rush hour chaos and the occasional flicker of the overhead lights. But for those who stayed late, like the night shift worker named Marcus, the silence between the trains was thick with something unseen. Marcus had been working the night shift at the station for over a year, cleaning up after the last trains had left. He’d never seen anything strange, until the night he found the key. It was tucked beneath a seat near the far end of the platform, half-buried in dust and old newspaper scraps. The key was rusted, its teeth worn down, and the handle was etched with a symbol he couldn’t recognize—a spiral with three concentric circles. It looked ancient, like it belonged to a time before the station even existed. He pocketed it without thinking, just in case. That night, he dreamed of tunnels that stretched beyond the city, of voices whispering in languages he didn’t know. When he woke up, the key was still in his hand, and the station felt colder than usual. Over the next few days, Marcus began to notice things. The clock on the wall always showed the same time—2:17 AM. The train that ran at that hour was never listed on the schedule, and no one else seemed to remember it. He asked the other workers, but they just shrugged and said there was no such train. Yet, every night, he could hear the distant rumble of wheels on tracks, like something was coming from deep underground. One night, he followed the sound. The tunnel behind the platform was supposed to be sealed off, but the door had been left ajar. He stepped inside, the air growing colder as he moved deeper. The walls were lined with old graffiti, some of it faded, others fresh, as if someone had been there recently. At the end of the tunnel, there was a door. It was the same kind of metal as the old train cars, and it had a small, rusted lock. Marcus hesitated. Then, he pulled out the key. It fit perfectly. The door creaked open, revealing a long, narrow hallway lit by flickering bulbs. The floor was covered in dust, but there were footprints leading forward, as if someone had walked through recently. He followed them, heart pounding, until he reached a large room filled with old train carriages, all frozen in time. Some were intact, others broken, their windows shattered. In the center of the room stood a single chair, facing a mirror that reflected not his image, but a dimly lit platform with people standing silently, watching him. He turned around, expecting to see someone behind him, but the room was empty. The mirror’s reflection remained unchanged. He reached out, touching the glass, and for a moment, he saw himself standing in front of the mirror, but then the image shifted. The man in the mirror smiled, and when he turned, the room was gone. He was back on the platform, the key now warm in his hand, and the clock reading 2:17 again. The next morning, Marcus reported the incident to the station manager, but he was met with blank stares and confused expressions. No one remembered any tunnels or strange doors. The only thing they knew was that the station had been built over an old railway line that had been abandoned decades ago. But the key was still in his possession, and the dreams returned each night, more vivid than before. He started to wonder if the key wasn’t meant to unlock a door, but to open something else—something that had been waiting for him. Each night, the dream changed slightly. Sometimes he was on the platform, sometimes in the train carriages, sometimes standing in the middle of a crowd that never spoke. And always, the mirror showed him a version of himself that was watching him back. One night, he decided to stay on the platform after the last train had left. He sat on the bench, the key in his hand, and waited. The hours passed, and the silence grew heavier. Then, the train came. It wasn’t like any other. It was dark, its lights dim, and the doors opened without a sound. Inside, the passengers were faceless, their eyes glowing faintly. One of them turned toward him, and he felt a pull, as if the train was calling him. He didn’t move. Instead, he stared into the mirror one last time, wondering if he was the one being watched—or if he had always been part of the story.