The midnight subway was never empty, but it was always quiet. Most people avoided it after the last train had left, and those who did ride it were either sleep-deprived workers or the lost souls of the city. That’s what I thought, anyway, until the night I found the door. I had been working late at the library, my eyes bleary from hours of cataloging old newspapers. The clock on the wall read 1:17 a.m. as I stepped onto the platform, the usual hum of the underground station replaced by an eerie silence. The tracks stretched into the darkness like the mouth of some ancient beast, and the flickering lights above cast long shadows across the tiles. I waited for the next train, which never came. Instead, a man in a gray suit appeared beside me. He didn’t look up, just stood there with his hands in his pockets, staring at the far end of the platform. I tried to ignore him, but something about him unsettled me—his face was too pale, his movements too slow, like he was rehearsing for a role in a forgotten film. After a few minutes, he finally spoke. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, as if he hadn’t used it in years. I didn’t answer. He turned slightly, revealing a small brass key hanging from a chain around his neck. “There’s a door,” he added, “if you know where to look.” I laughed, trying to mask my unease. “What door?” He didn’t respond. Instead, he walked toward the far end of the platform, disappearing into the tunnel. I hesitated, then followed. The air grew colder as we moved deeper, the sound of our footsteps echoing strangely. The walls seemed to close in, and the dim light from the overhead bulbs flickered like dying stars. Then I saw it—a narrow metal door set into the concrete wall, half-hidden behind a pile of rusted pipes. It looked out of place, as though it had been placed there by mistake. The man stopped and pointed at it. “It’s only open once every seven years,” he said. “But tonight is the night.” I reached out, my fingers brushing the cold metal. The door creaked open with a sound that made my teeth ache. Inside was a small room, no larger than a closet, lit by a single bulb that pulsed like a heartbeat. On the wall was a mirror, but when I looked into it, I saw not my reflection, but a different version of myself—older, wearing a coat I didn’t own, standing in a place I had never been. The man stepped inside behind me. “This is the Station Between,” he said. “A place between the world you know and the one you don’t.” He turned to me, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Everyone who comes here leaves changed, but not always in ways they expect.” I asked what happened to those who stayed. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Some say they vanish. Others say they become part of the system, watching over the ones who come after.” I wanted to leave, but the door had already closed behind us. The man began to walk toward the mirror. “You should go back,” he said. “Before the next train comes.” I ran, but the corridor twisted and shifted, the walls bending in ways that defied logic. When I finally stumbled out onto the platform, the station was empty. No sign of the man, no trace of the door. The clock read 1:17 again, unchanged. The next day, I told no one about what I’d seen. But sometimes, when I ride the subway late at night, I catch a glimpse of a man in a gray suit, standing at the far end of the platform, waiting. And I wonder—was I ever really alone? Or have I simply forgotten what I became?