The subway was never quiet, but on the night of the 13th, it felt like the air itself had been drained. A young woman named Lila sat alone in a corner seat, her headphones muted as she watched the flickering lights pass by. The train was almost empty, save for an old man slumped in the seat across from her, his eyes closed, mouth slightly open, as if he were dreaming of something far away. She had taken the midnight express to avoid the usual crowds, but the silence was unnerving. The hum of the train was softer than usual, almost like a lullaby sung by the walls themselves. Lila checked her watch—2:47 AM. She should have been home hours ago, but the city had a way of making time feel like a living thing, stretching and twisting when you weren’t looking. As the train passed through the tunnel, the lights went out for a moment. Not a flicker, not a power outage, but a complete darkness that lasted longer than it should. When the lights returned, the old man was gone. Lila looked around, her breath catching in her throat. The seats were still empty, the doors untouched. No one else had moved. She stood up, heart pounding, and walked toward the next car. The corridor was dimly lit, the overhead bulbs buzzing faintly. As she stepped into the next section, she noticed something strange—the floor was wet. Not just damp, but slick with a dark, oily substance that glistened under the light. She bent down to touch it, but stopped herself. It didn’t look like water. In the next car, a single passenger sat alone, staring at the window. His face was pale, his eyes wide, as if he were watching something just beyond the glass. Lila hesitated before approaching, but the man didn’t acknowledge her. She turned back, her mind racing. Had she missed something? Was this all a trick of the light? The train came to a stop at a station she didn’t recognize. The name on the sign was faded, the letters barely visible. A cold wind rushed through the open doors, carrying with it the scent of rust and decay. Lila stepped off the train, her boots echoing against the platform. The station was empty, the tracks leading into a black void. There was no exit, no signs of any other passengers. Just the endless tunnel and the sound of her own breathing. She turned back, but the train had already left. No one else had gotten off. No one else had come on. She was alone. The air grew colder, and the walls seemed to pulse with a slow, rhythmic beat, like a heartbeat deep beneath the city. Lila walked forward, her flashlight trembling in her hand. The deeper she went, the more the walls changed. They were no longer concrete, but something smoother, darker, as if they had been carved from the earth itself. Strange symbols were etched into the stone, glowing faintly in the beam of her light. She traced one with her finger, and the ground shuddered beneath her. A whisper filled the air, not in her ears, but in the space around her. It was soft, almost melodic, like a lullaby sung by a thousand voices. She couldn’t understand the words, but they made her feel both comforted and afraid. The whisper grew louder, circling her like a current, pulling her deeper into the unknown. At the end of the tunnel, a door stood ajar. It was wooden, old, and covered in the same symbols she had seen on the walls. The air around it was still, thick with something she couldn’t name. She reached for the handle, and the moment her fingers touched it, the whisper stopped. Inside, the room was empty except for a single chair and a mirror. The mirror showed not her reflection, but a different version of herself—older, wearier, with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries. She stepped closer, and the reflection smiled. Then, without warning, the mirror cracked, and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the tunnel. Lila stumbled back, her heart pounding. The door slammed shut behind her, and the lights went out again. This time, the darkness wasn’t just absence—it was presence. It pressed against her, wrapping around her like a living thing. When the lights returned, she was back on the train. The old man was sitting in his seat once more, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. The other passengers had returned, their faces blank, their eyes fixed on nothing. Lila sat down, her hands shaking, and stared out the window. The city passed by in a blur, but something had changed. She could feel it in her bones. The subway was still running, but it wasn’t the same. It had always been there, waiting. And now, she knew—some doors never close, and some paths never end.