The subway station was never really meant for people. It had been abandoned for decades, its metal doors rusted shut and its tunnels swallowed by darkness. But every so often, a few brave souls would wander in, drawn by the whisper of forgotten stories. Most of them never returned. Lena had heard the tales from her grandfather, who used to work as a maintenance worker before the city closed the line. He spoke of shadows that moved without light, of voices that echoed from nowhere, and of a platform that only appeared when no one was looking. She didn’t believe him—until the night she got lost. It started with a wrong turn. The usual train had broken down, so she took the next one, expecting to be back home in twenty minutes. But the train stopped at an unfamiliar station, its lights flickering like dying fireflies. When she stepped out, the platform was empty, save for a single bench and a flickering overhead bulb. No one else was there. She called for help, but her voice was swallowed by the silence. Then she noticed the walls. They were covered in strange symbols, etched into the concrete in a language she didn’t recognize. Some looked like they had been carved with a knife, others seemed to have been burned into the stone. A chill ran through her, but she pressed on, trying to find the exit. At the far end of the platform, a door stood slightly ajar. It was old, wooden, and creaked as if it hadn’t been opened in years. Lena hesitated, then pushed it open. Beyond was a narrow corridor, lit by a single bulb that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air was thick, almost tangible, and smelled faintly of mildew and something metallic. She walked for what felt like hours, but the corridor never ended. The walls shifted subtly, as if they were alive. At one point, she saw a shadow move in the corner of her eye—but when she turned, nothing was there. The sound of footsteps echoed behind her, slow and deliberate, but when she turned again, the corridor was empty. Then she found the room. It was small, circular, and filled with mirrors. Not just any mirrors—each one reflected a different version of herself. One showed her as a child, another as an old woman, and one that made her stomach twist: a version of her with hollow eyes and a smile that didn’t reach her mouth. She tried to leave, but the door had vanished. Panic set in. She backed away from the mirrors, but they followed her, their reflections shifting with each step. One of them whispered her name, not with sound, but with a feeling in her bones. She ran, but the corridor stretched endlessly, and the whispers grew louder. When she finally stumbled into a new space, it was a platform again, but this time, it was crowded. People sat on benches, staring straight ahead, their faces blank. No one acknowledged her. She tried to speak, but her voice wouldn’t come. The train arrived, its doors opening with a groan. She climbed on, heart pounding, and the doors closed behind her. The ride was silent. The other passengers didn’t move, didn’t look up. The tunnel lights flickered, casting long shadows on the walls. When the train finally stopped, Lena stepped off, only to find herself back at the original station. The same bench, the same flickering bulb, the same door. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, but eventually, the station emptied. She walked toward the exit, but the doors had sealed shut. She was trapped. And then she heard the whisper again, this time from behind her. "Welcome home."