It was 7:42 a.m. on June 23rd, 1996. The kind of morning where the rain never quite stops, a constant drizzle that collects on your clothes and doesn’t let go. David Weber was late, of course. He always was. But today, it didn’t matter. Today, it mattered more than anything.

  His shoes slapped against the wet pavement as he sprinted toward the station, the soft hiss of tires on slick roads rising behind him. He could see the overhead sign of the train station—flickering, like a dying bulb. It wasn’t far now, but the wet weight of the air seemed to be pushing him down. He could feel his shirt clinging to his back, his breath coming in short bursts. Great, he thought. Late and sweaty.

  When he reached the ticket counter, something was off. There was no line. Not even the usual scatter of impatient commuters clutching their wallets, tapping their feet, glaring at the clock. Just the dull buzz of the overhead speakers, the hum of fluorescent lights. The counter was empty, except for the worn-out clerk, who sat behind the glass, staring at something on the other side of the room. The sound of static crackled over the intercom.

  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 practically a guarantee.

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

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

  David frowned. Manual?

  The words hung in the air for a moment longer than they should have, as if the station was caught in a glitch, like a skip in a broken record. His mind had already started to make connections, but it didn’t have time. He was late. His office would be unbearable today.

  He turned, feeling the weight of the delay sinking into his chest. The usual ticket machine, where he’d normally swipe his card, was dark, unblinking, like it had never existed at all. The desk clerk—her face too tired to even look up—was scribbling something on a clipboard. Her hand didn’t move right, a quick twitch every few seconds, like her body was out of sync with the moment.

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  David glanced back at the counter. People were slowly starting to file up, but the line was growing longer, thicker. The clock above him ticked forward, but it felt like it was stuck, the second hand never moving. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but the thought of missing this train, of being late for another day, gnawed at him. He hated being late. It made everything worse.

  It was always worse.

  The lines grew like tumors.

  David stepped from one queue to the next, his eyes scanning for an opening, for any hint of momentum. But each line moved with the urgency of molasses, people shifting barely an inch before settling back into a static lump of wet coats and damp frustration.

  He wiped his hands on his slacks, irritated. The air was thick, metallic—like breathing through an old penny. The overhead lights flickered. Again. Always the flicker, never the burn. There was a pulsing to them, a rhythm that didn’t line up with anything else. Not with the lights outside. Not with time itself.

  He turned, mostly out of habit, to look for another line. Maybe one tucked further in the back, maybe one of those temporary desks they sometimes set up when things broke down, which they always did.

  And that’s when he saw it.

  A stairwell. Tucked in the corner near the vending machine alcove. A grimy sign above it, barely legible through the years of cigarette smoke stains and water streaks, said:

  Platform 3B.

  David squinted at it.

  There wasn’t a 3B.

  He had taken this station every day for the past four years. He knew every route, every kiosk, every shortcut through the coffee stand when they weren't watching. There was 3A, sure—but that led to the long-haul tracks. 3B? No. Never.

  He looked around. No one else seemed to notice it. No one even glanced toward it, like it was behind some invisible line the rest of the world refused to cross.

  It wasn’t roped off. No sign said “Employees Only.” It was just... there. Waiting. As if it always had been.

  He hesitated.

  It could’ve been new. He could’ve just missed it. Stations changed. Bureaucracy shifted the walls like tectonic plates. Still—he felt something tighten behind his ribs, like he was staring at a memory he hadn't made yet.

  His eyes flicked back to the lines.

  Longer.

  Much longer.

  A man two counters down coughed violently, like he was choking on something that didn’t belong in his throat. No one moved. The clerk didn’t look up. The clock said 7:47 now, but he could’ve sworn it had said that five minutes ago.

  David’s feet moved before he could talk himself out of it.

  Just a look, he thought. Curiosity. Hell, maybe a shortcut. Maybe some old auxiliary platform where no one lined up because no one knew. Maybe—God willing—someone forgot to put a sign up.

  He ducked past the vending machines and down the narrow stairwell.

  The lights buzzed louder here. Fluorescent tubes flickered, some dead entirely. The walls were damp, like the rain had seeped into the concrete itself. He could smell old paint and something else. Copper, maybe. Or ozone. Like after lightning.

  The stairs went deeper than they should have. He counted at least three landings before he realized he wasn’t counting anymore.

  He stopped.

  Turned back.

  Only there wasn’t a stairwell behind him. Just another hallway, barely lit, stretching sideways into shadows.