The midnight train was always the worst. Not because of the people, or the smell of old coffee and damp fabric, but because it never seemed to run on time. It arrived late, left early, and sometimes, it just vanished from the platform like it had never been there at all. Most of the passengers ignored it, but a few—like me—had learned to watch for the strange signs. I had taken the 12:47 every Friday since I moved into the city. The route was simple: downtown, through the old district, and out toward the outskirts where the buildings thinned and the streetlights flickered. But that night, the train didn’t come. Not at first. Instead, the station grew quiet, the usual hum of distant traffic fading into something else—something deeper, like the silence before a storm. Then, the lights went out. Not all at once, but one by one, as if someone were turning them off with a slow, deliberate hand. A cold wind swept through the platform, carrying with it the faint sound of laughter—soft, almost musical, but not human. I stood still, clutching my bag, watching the darkness stretch longer than it should have. Then, the lights came back on, and the train was there. It wasn’t the same train. The doors were different, the color of the carriages more faded, like they had been sitting in a museum for decades. A man in a long coat stepped off, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. He didn’t look at anyone. He just walked past, disappearing into the tunnel like he had always belonged there. I boarded the train, half expecting it to be empty, but it wasn’t. There were other passengers, some reading newspapers from the 1960s, others staring blankly at the ceiling. No one spoke. No one looked up. The doors closed with a soft hiss, and the train began to move, gliding smoothly through the dark. As we passed through the tunnels, the windows showed reflections of things that weren’t there. Shadows moving where no one stood, faces pressed against the glass, their eyes wide and unblinking. I tried to ignore them, but they kept coming back, each time more distinct. One face, in particular, caught my attention—a young woman with long black hair and a red scarf. She smiled at me, and when I blinked, she was gone. The train stopped at a station I didn’t recognize. The name on the sign was faded, barely legible. The doors opened, and a group of people stepped off, their movements synchronized, as if they were following a silent script. I hesitated, but the train was already beginning to pull away. I ran after them, but when I reached the platform, they were gone. Only the sound of the train’s echo remained. I found myself standing in a narrow alley, the air thick with the scent of rain and something older, something like memory. The buildings around me were cracked and crumbling, their windows dark. A clock tower loomed in the distance, its hands frozen at 12:47. I turned, and there she was—the woman with the red scarf, standing at the end of the alley, watching me. She raised a hand, as if to say something, but then she simply vanished, leaving only the scarf fluttering in the wind. I followed the path, unsure of where it led, until I reached a door. It was wooden, old, and slightly ajar. Inside, the room was filled with photographs, all of the same train, but different years. Some showed people I recognized, others were strangers. And in the center of the room, a single chair sat waiting. I sat down, and the door closed behind me. The lights flickered, and the walls began to shift, revealing more photos, more memories. I saw myself on the train, walking through the stations, speaking to people who had never been there. I saw the woman with the red scarf, smiling in every picture. And then, the final photo: me, standing on the platform, watching the train disappear into the night. I woke up on the subway bench, the 12:47 train long gone. My watch said 12:48. I didn’t remember falling asleep. I didn’t remember the alley, the door, the photos. But I knew, somehow, that I had been there. That I had seen what was meant to be unseen. And as I stepped onto the next train, I couldn’t help but wonder—was I the passenger, or the one being watched?