The subway station was never empty, but it was always quiet. Not the kind of quiet that came from silence, but the kind that hummed just below the surface, like a voice speaking in a language you almost understood. Most people didn’t notice it. They hurried through the tunnels, eyes on their phones, feet on the moving walkways, oblivious to the way the walls seemed to breathe. Eli had always been different. He didn’t rush. He didn’t look at his phone. He listened. And what he heard was a low, steady murmur, like the echo of a thousand conversations that had never actually happened. It wasn’t loud enough to be disturbing, just enough to make your skin prickle if you paid attention for too long. One evening, as the sun dipped below the city skyline, Eli found himself on the 11th platform, the one that only opened during the late hours. The station was abandoned, its lights flickering with an old, tired glow. The tracks were dark, and the air smelled of rust and something sweet, like burnt sugar. He had no idea how he got there—only that he felt drawn, as though the station itself had called him. He stepped onto the platform, and the murmur grew louder. It wasn’t voices, not exactly. It was more like the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing from somewhere deep beneath the earth. He turned around, expecting to see someone else, but the platform was empty. The only light came from a single flickering bulb overhead, casting long shadows that moved when they shouldn’t. Then he saw them. Dozens of figures, walking in perfect unison, their faces hidden beneath hoods. They moved without sound, their steps matching the rhythm of the murmur. They passed by him, neither acknowledging nor ignoring him, as if he weren’t there at all. One of them paused, just for a moment, and tilted its head toward him, as though it had heard something. Then it continued on, vanishing into the tunnel. Eli followed. The tunnel stretched endlessly, its walls lined with strange symbols carved into the concrete. They looked ancient, yet somehow familiar, as if he had seen them before in a dream. The air grew colder, and the murmur became a song, a lullaby sung in a language he couldn’t understand. He began to feel dizzy, as if the air itself was pulling him deeper. At the end of the tunnel, there was a door. It was wooden, weathered, and slightly ajar. Eli hesitated, then pushed it open. Beyond was a small room, lit by a single candle. In the center stood a man, dressed in a tattered suit, his face pale and hollow. He turned slowly, as if he had been waiting for Eli all along. “You’ve come back,” the man said, his voice soft, almost sad. “I don’t know where I am,” Eli replied, his voice barely above a whisper. The man smiled. “You’ve always been here. You just forgot.” Eli’s heart pounded. “What does that mean?” The man gestured to the walls, where dozens of names were etched into the stone. Some were recent, others centuries old. Eli’s name was among them. “You’re not the first,” the man said. “And you won’t be the last.” Eli backed away, but the door behind him had vanished. The candle flickered, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. The man stepped closer, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “There are many who enter the subway,” he said. “But few remember why.” Eli tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The man reached out, and for a moment, Eli felt something inside him shift, like a memory he had lost and now could almost recall. Then the lights went out. When he opened his eyes, he was back on the platform, the station empty, the murmur gone. The train had arrived, and the doors were open. No one else was there. He stepped inside, and as the train pulled away, he glanced back one last time. The station was gone. He sat in his seat, staring at the window, his reflection staring back at him. But something was different. His eyes were hollow, like the man’s. And in the corner of the window, a single name was etched into the glass—his own.