The station was empty.
Broken tiles scattered across the floor, wooden beams sagging overhead.
Light poured in through cracked walls and danced over moss-covered rails.
There were no trains.
Just a single bench in the middle of the platform — and a man sitting on it, head bowed, holding a small wooden box.
Wind pulled me behind a pillar.
“Not everyone here is real,” she whispered.
“Especially in places like this.”
“What are they, then?” I asked.
“Memories. Wearing shapes.”
I didn’t ask more.
In the corner of the station stood an old signpost.
Its letters were almost gone.
But as I looked closer, one line came into focus:
“Transfer Station – For Unshaped Memories”
“We can’t stay long,” Wind said. “Every second we remain, your memories get scanned.
And if they don’t match this layer’s frame of reality… they’ll know.”
“They?” I asked.
“The Watchers.”
Just as she said it, a sharp metallic sound rang out — not from a train, but from above.
I looked up.
Four bronze-masked figures were going down from the rooftop… sliding along the wall, as if gravity no longer applied.
Wind grabbed my hand.
“Run!”
We sprinted across the platform, ducking behind broken crates, leaping over rails, and diving into a drainage tunnel beneath the floor.
Darkness wrapped around us.
Only the sound of our footsteps remained — bouncing off the wet stone.
We didn’t stop until the silence grew too thick.
Catching my breath, I asked, “Is there a way out? Or will we keep running forever?”
Wind stayed quiet for a moment.
Then she pressed her hand against the tunnel wall.
Light spread beneath her palm — not glowing, but revealing.
And what it revealed wasn’t the stone… It was an image.
Me — holding Long — running through a warped crowd.
Was it a memory?
Or a warning?
“There’s another door,” she said. “But it’s not like the others.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
She turned to me.
Her voice soft, certain.
“Inside you.”
