When the Underground Falls Silent: A Story Between Dream and Fear
Emily had stayed late at work for the first time in months. It had been a grinding day—meetings, reports, a single coffee to last the evening. She stepped out of the office and barely noticed herself drifting toward the Underground entrance. Her head buzzed; her heart hummed like tracks before an oncoming train. She descended, and immediately, she knew—she was too late.
The old clock above the platform read 00:48. The digital display blinked once, then froze, as if it too had gone to sleep. Below, the tracks lay dark and slick, polished by something unseen. Drops fell from the ceiling at odd intervals, each sound sharp as a gunshot. Empty. No noise, no light, no movement.
Emily edged toward the platform’s brink, peering into the tunnel. Nothing. No familiar rumble, no flicker of distant headlights, no announcements over the speakers. Just her own breathing and the solitary drip-drip, like a clock ticking in an abandoned house.
She retreated to a bench. Her phone—2% battery. A single bar of signal. Apps wouldn’t load, maps refused to open, messages stayed dead. With a sigh, she tucked it away, and only then did she realize—the station was utterly deserted. No attendant, no cleaner, not even a lone commuter with a crumpled cap. No security. As if everything had vanished, and she alone remained.
Emily had never feared the Underground. It was her daily route, her second city beneath the streets, where each carriage was a room and each stop a tiny island. But tonight, something was wrong. It was hollow. Too hollow. And in that quiet, fear began to stir.
“Hello?!” she called into the tunnel. Her voice echoed back, fading into nothing. No footsteps, no rustle. Just the drip.
She paced the platform. Slowly. Her heels clicked like gunfire. Beyond the ticket gates—emptiness. Machines pulsed with neon loneliness, as if they missed the rush. Everything worked—yet nothing breathed. Like a body after the heart stops.
“Fine,” she muttered, forcing confidence into her trembling voice. “I’ll wait. Morning can’t be far off.”
She sat. Hugged her bag. Closed her eyes. And without meaning to, she fell—down, into sleep.
Movement woke her. Someone had settled beside her. A man. A grey overcoat. His face stayed in shadow. He smelled of rain, ashes, and something else—something forgotten.
“Have you been here long?” he asked, not looking at her.
“Lost… Well, left behind,” Emily whispered, her lips sticking. “You?”
He nodded. Stared at the tracks as if they held meaning. Then, finally: “The trains still run. Not everyone hears them.”
“What?” She flinched. “Who are you? Staff? Security?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I stayed once, too. When I thought there was nowhere left to go.”
His voice was calm. Fearless. And in that calmness was something… familiar. As if he knew exactly what she felt. As if he’d known her long before tonight.
“You—live down here?”
“No. I just meet those who’ve lost the exit. Sometimes, someone just needs to remind you: an exit isn’t always a door.”
Emily stood. Meant to leave. Took a step. Glanced back.
“I know the way out. It’s just… there was no train.”
“Already came,” he said. “Doesn’t always ride the rails. Sometimes the train is you. The trick is—don’t wait for the signal. It’s already sounded.”
She hesitated. Listened. The Underground kept its silence. With a mute nod, she walked toward the exit. Past the columns, past the faded display where no letters scurried. Past the empty hall.
And there—beyond the glass doors—was light. Real light. Morning light. Grey, weary, but alive. A bus. A woman with shopping bags. The smell of bread from a kiosk.
Emily turned back—but the man was gone. Vanished. Or simply walked where no one waited anymore.
She stepped outside. Drew a deep breath. And walked home—slow, steady. Because when the Underground falls silent… sometimes, someone still speaks. Not loud. But exactly when it matters.
