The subway was always quiet at 2:17 a.m. Not the kind of quiet that comes from being empty, but the kind that hums in your bones, like the world has forgotten you. That’s how I found myself on the platform, waiting for the train that never came. I had no idea why I was there. My watch said 2:16, but the clock above the entrance read 3:04. It was one of those moments where time felt like it had been stretched and folded, and I wasn’t sure which version to trust. I stood near the edge of the platform, my breath visible in the cold air. The flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows against the tiles, making the station look like a scene from an old movie. A few other people were there, but they didn’t speak. They just stared at the tracks, their faces pale and unreadable. One man in a gray suit kept tapping his foot in rhythm with the silence, as if he were counting something only he could hear. Then, the train arrived. Not with the usual screech of metal on metal, but with a low, mournful sound, like a creaking door opening into another world. The doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a car that looked untouched by time. There were no advertisements, no graffiti, just smooth black walls and seats that seemed too clean. No one else moved. I hesitated, but the man in the gray suit stepped forward first, his eyes fixed on the floor. I followed. Inside, the air was different—thicker, heavier, like walking through a fog made of memory. The seats were empty, but the atmosphere was not. It was as if the train itself remembered something I had forgotten. I sat down, and the seat adjusted to fit me, like it had been waiting for me all along. The train started moving, but there was no sound of wheels on tracks. Just the soft whisper of wind and the occasional creak of the metal. The windows showed nothing but darkness, but I could feel the city passing by, though I couldn’t see it. The lights of buildings flickered like fireflies, and the streets below were silent, as if everyone had vanished. At the next stop, the doors opened again. This time, the platform was different. It was smaller, more intimate, and the walls were covered in old posters from a time I didn’t recognize. A woman stood there, her face obscured by a veil of smoke. She didn’t move, but she was watching me. I tried to step off, but the doors closed before I could. Back in the train, the silence deepened. I noticed something strange about the other passengers. They didn’t age. They looked exactly the same as when I first saw them. Some of them blinked slowly, as if they were dreaming. One of them, a boy with a book in his hands, looked up at me and smiled. I didn’t know why, but I felt a chill run down my spine. The train stopped again. This time, the platform was empty. The lights were dim, and the air smelled of wet earth. I stepped out, and the doors closed behind me. I was alone now, standing in a place that didn’t seem to belong to any map I knew. The tracks extended into the distance, vanishing into a tunnel that pulsed with a faint, blue glow. I heard a voice then, soft and distant, like it was coming from somewhere just beyond my reach. “You’re not supposed to be here,” it said. I turned, but there was no one there. The voice didn’t come again, but the feeling lingered. I felt watched, not by anything physical, but by something unseen, something that had been waiting for me. I walked forward, unsure if I was going to find an exit or something worse. The tunnel walls began to change, shifting from concrete to something smoother, almost organic. The air grew warmer, and the blue light became brighter, casting strange patterns on the floor. I thought I saw shapes moving in the distance, but when I looked closer, there was nothing. At the end of the tunnel, there was a door. It was old, wooden, and slightly ajar. I reached out, but before I could touch it, the train appeared again, its doors opening silently. The passengers inside were gone, and the car was empty. I hesitated, then stepped back into the train. As it pulled away, I realized something. I had never seen the conductor. And I had never seen the driver. But the train still moved, guided by something I couldn’t name. I sat in silence, watching the darkness pass by, wondering if I would ever find my way back to the world I knew. And I wondered, if I did, would I even want to?