Chapters - 1 The announcement

June 23rd, 1996. 7:42 a.m. Rain like a soft-spoken apology fell over the city—consistent, but without force. The kind that made everything feel a little quieter, like the world was holding its breath.

He was late. Again. He was always late. There was no changing it. He could get up earlier, drink less the night before, even set five alarms—he'd still be five minutes late. Like something in the fabric of time refused to let him arrive on time. Maybe the universe hated him. Maybe it was just his shoes.

Those shoes now slapped hard against the wet pavement as he sprinted toward the station, the city yawning open in front of him. The buildings were gray, unbothered, their windows blinking dully through the drizzle. Steam curled up from a nearby vent like the last breath of something mechanical and tired.

His coat flared behind him as he turned the corner. Out of breath, half-soaked, he finally stumbled into the station, his lungs pulling at the air like it owed him something.

Then he stopped.

There was no line.

There was always a line. Even on Sundays. Even when the trains were late or on strike or whispering nonsense over the loudspeakers. There was always someone: a man fidgeting with coins, a woman yelling into a payphone, a kid chewing gum too loud.

But now—nothing. No shuffling of coats, no rhythmic tapping of feet. Just a pale corridor with flickering lights and an unnatural quiet. Time hiccuped.

The only person there was the clerk, hunched and old, skin paper-thin and eyes unfocused. He sat behind the scratched glass of the booth, not moving, not even acknowledging his presence. He just stared—through the glass, through the room, through maybe the damn floor.

David blinked. He stared at the counter again.

Christ, there's no line?

A lazy morning, maybe? It didn't make sense. Even on slow days, there was always someone. A delayed train was particularly a guarantee.

Then the intercom crackled to life, slicing through the air like the sound of a tape recorder sewing through static.

"Attention. Due to technical difficulties, ticket distribution will be manual today. Please proceed to the desk for your tickets."

David frowned, the words feeling wrong, like they were stitched together out of order. Manual? When was the last time the word "manual" was used in a public announcement?

When David glanced back at the counter, the people were slowly starting to file up. But the line was growing longer and thicker. Too many. Too quickly.

The clock above him ticked forward.

Time didn't wait. He was already late for his office.

David blinked, his gaze darting back to the counter. The line had grown, but not in any way that made sense. The people, faces vague and indistinct, seemed to multiply without cause, as if the station itself were pulling them out of thin air.

He could feel time bending around him, like a rubber band stretched too far. It was impossible, but there it was. The lines—their impossible length—pulled at his nerves. They were everywhere, creeping toward him, shifting, almost like they were alive. And in a split-second, David realized something: He didn't have time for this.

He needed to get through. The clock kept ticking, its hands cruel and steady.

With no other choice, he turned. The crowd pressed in, but he maneuvered, his feet sliding on the wet floor, looking for the way out. For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was looking for. Anything, really. A shortcut. A way out.

Then his eyes caught it—a stairwell.

Tucked in the corner near the vending machine alcove, as if it had always been there, waiting for someone. The sign above it was grimy, barely legible through years of cigarette smoke stains and water streaks, but still it stood, stubborn and quiet. The words were faded, but he could make out the scrawl:

Platform 3B.

David squinted, not sure whether to believe his eyes.

There wasn't a 3B.

He knew this station. Knew it like the back of his hand. He'd taken this same route every day for the past four years, without fail. He knew every twist and turn, every turnstile, every vending machine. There was 3A, sure—everyone used 3A. That led to the long-haul tracks. But 3B? No. It was never there.

He glanced around. No one else seemed to notice it. Not a single person looked toward the stairwell. It was like it was invisible. As if the world had decided to just... ignore it.

It wasn't roped off. No signs said "Employees Only." It was just there. A quiet anomaly, sitting in the corner as if it had always been. Waiting.

David's breath caught. Something twisted in his gut. Maybe it was new. Maybe he'd just missed it. After all, stations changed. Bureaucracy shifted walls like tectonic plates, without warning, without reason.

But no. This felt... wrong. The sense of déjà vu was almost unbearable. It was like he was staring at a memory that hadn't yet happened, a place he was supposed to know but couldn't quite place.

His eyes flicked back to the counter. The line had grown longer. Much longer.

He could still leave. He could still turn around and go back. But something about the stairwell called to him, pulling at some hidden part of his mind. His chest tightened.

David hesitated, staring at the shadows behind the stairwell's railing. The only sound was the faint hum of the station, the static of the intercom still clinging to the air.

Longer and longer the line grew. But the stairwell—Platform 3B—was still there, unmoving, a possibility hanging in the air.

A man two counters down coughed violently, a hacking, guttural sound, like something lodged in his throat, some foreign object trying to claw its way out. His body jerked with each gasp, but no one moved. No one even blinked. The clerk didn't lift his head. He just stared, unblinking, at nothing. The clock read 7:47 a.m., but the moment was suspended, frozen. It could've been 7:47 for the past five minutes—or five years.

David's feet shifted before his mind could form an argument.

Just a look, he told himself. Curiosity. Maybe a shortcut, a forgotten platform, some auxiliary station buried in the depths of the system where no one ever bothered to go. Maybe the world had forgotten to put a sign up.

He moved instinctively, ducking past the vending machines, the hum of the fluorescent lights following him like some distant, oppressive warning. The stairwell was narrow and unwelcoming, the air thick with the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. He could almost taste it—the sharpness of old paint, copper, or something that smelled like ozone, like the air after a storm had passed. The kind of storm that made the world feel fragile, as if the ground beneath your feet might just break open and swallow you whole.

The stairs descended further than he'd expected. He counted, his mind trying to keep track, but the numbers blurred. Three landings, four? No—he wasn't counting anymore.

He stopped.

The echo of his breath filled the space, but something else lingered in the air. Silence. Too still, too thick. He turned back, his steps uncertain.

But the stairwell wasn't there anymore.

Just a hallway. Dimly lit, the lights sputtering above him like a half-remembered dream. The walls pressed in on either side, stretching further than he could see, a void between two shadows.

It was there, in the hallway. Waiting. As if it had always been.

David's heartbeat quickened. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, but the hallway remained. Empty, stretching into the dark. He was no longer sure whether he'd been here before—or if he ever had been.

It was as though time had folded in on itself, and he was no longer where he had been just seconds ago.

And the clock upstairs? Maybe it was still frozen at 7:47. Maybe it was never moving at all.