14 April
8:00 P.M.
Nicolas's Home
The faint sound of footsteps echoed through the narrow room.
Nicolas walked slowly from one end to the other, his hands clasped behind his back, his brows furrowed in thought. The dim oil lamp on the table flickered weakly, throwing long shadows against the walls—shadows that stretched and twisted as he moved.
Tomorrow, he would go to meet Mr. Williams.
And he had no idea what he was going to say.
Earlier that day, he had stood before his workers and spoken with passion—his voice firm, his words confident. He had told them he would not let their hard work fall into someone else's hands. He had promised them justice.
But now, alone in his room, those same words felt heavy.
How do I convince him? Nicolas thought.
He stopped near the window and stared outside. The town was quiet, the streets empty, the air thick with night.
"First, I'll greet him politely," he muttered to himself. "Then… I'll try to soften him with a few smooth words."
He rubbed his temple.
"Or maybe I should be direct."
He began pacing again.
"I'll make him understand that if he hands this project to someone else, they'll ruin it. They won't understand the design. They won't understand the structure. They won't understand the problems we've already solved."
His voice grew firmer.
"We're the ones who built it. We're the only ones who can finish it."
Then his shoulders slumped.
"But six months…" he whispered. "That's impossible."
He let out a slow breath.
"That's the real problem."
The silence of the room pressed against him.
"Whatever," he muttered. "I'll think about this on the train."
NEXT DAY
6:00 A.M.
The clock rang.
Sharp. Loud. Merciless.
Nicolas groaned, rolling onto his side before forcing himself upright. His eyes burned. His head felt heavy.
He sat there for a moment, staring blankly.
"The train arrives around seven," he thought. "I don't have time to waste."
He stood up, stretched, and quickly began packing. He folded a few clothes, shoved them into his bag, and added some basic necessities—just enough for a week.
Then his hand paused.
He opened the drawer.
Inside lay two familiar objects.
A broken pocket watch.
An old lighter.
He stared at them longer than necessary.
Something about them always made him uneasy… yet he never traveled without them.
With a sigh, he placed them into his bag.
He slung the luggage over his shoulder, stepped outside, and locked the door.
Click.
The sound echoed in the empty street.
As he turned toward the road leading to the station, his heart sank.
Barricades.
Wooden planks.
Dust.
The road was under construction.
"…You have got to be kidding me," he muttered.
He stepped forward, examining the mess.
"Why now?" he snapped. "Why do they always decide to fix things at the worst possible time?"
He clenched his jaw.
"Couldn't they have done this earlier?!"
There was another path—but it was longer. Much longer.
Two kilometers more.
He checked the time.
Fifteen minutes.
His eyes widened.
Without another thought, he hoisted his luggage onto his head and ran.
His footsteps echoed loudly against the empty road.
"Damn luck!" he shouted.
His lungs burned.
His legs screamed.
And then—
A hiss.
The sound pierced the air.
Nicolas's heart skipped.
The train.
"No—no, no, no—wait!" he gasped, running faster.
The station came into view.
He burst through the entrance, breath ragged, chest heaving, and rushed straight to the counter.
"One ticket to Rozanta!" he panted.
The clerk blinked. "Calm down, man. Catch your breath first."
"I don't have time!" Nicolas snapped. "Just give me the ticket!"
"Oh… Rozanta?" the clerk said slowly. "I can't."
"What nonsense is that?" Nicolas shouted. "Just give it already!"
"The train has already left," the clerk replied. "How am I supposed to sell you a ticket now?"
Nicolas felt the words sink into his bones.
He turned away without another word.
His steps were slow as he walked to the platform bench and sat down heavily.
Four days, he thought.
No trains to Rozanta for four days.
He stared at the tracks.
His fingers curled into fists.
"What do I do now…?" he whispered.
Then—
A thought surfaced in his mind.
Slowly, he stood up.
He walked back toward the ticket counter.
But as he approached, his steps slowed.
Something was wrong.
The man sitting there was not the same clerk as before.
This new man wore a black suit, perfectly pressed. A black cap shadowed his face, hiding his eyes. No matter how Nicolas shifted his position, he could not see the man's features clearly—as if darkness clung to him unnaturally.
And then Nicolas noticed something else.
Mist.
A thick, gray mist had begun creeping across the station floor.
Not drifting.
Crawling.
The air grew colder.
Too cold.
Nicolas felt a chill crawl up his spine.
His breath fogged.
His instincts screamed.
Something is wrong.
But desperation silenced caution.
"Sir," Nicolas said hesitantly, "where is the man who was sitting here earlier?"
The man in black lifted his head slightly.
"He had something urgent to attend to," he replied calmly. "So he switched shifts with me."
His voice was smooth.
Too smooth.
Nicolas swallowed.
"Sir… I need to reach Rozanta urgently. Is there any other station from which I can catch a train directly?"
The man tilted his head.
"Mistwood Town," he said.
Nicolas blinked. "Mistwood?"
"A train will depart for it in twenty minutes."
Hope surged through Nicolas's chest.
"Which platform?" he asked quickly.
"Platform no.9."
Nicolas froze.
"…Nine?"
"Sir, platform no.9 isn't in the station" Nicolas said.
He pulled out the station catalogue.
"I only saw eight platforms," he said. "Look—there are only—"
His voice died.
The number nine was printed clearly.
Bold.
Undeniable.
His stomach twisted.
"I… I swear it wasn't there before," Nicolas muttered.
"I guess I didn't check properly." Nicolas admitted.
The man in black smiled.
It was not warm.
Not friendly.
Not human.
"Sometimes," he said, "these things happen, young man."
Nicolas forced a smile.
"Thank you, sir."
He turned and walked away—but with every step, the cold followed him.
PLATFORM 9
Nicolas had never seen this part of the station before.
That alone terrified him.
Platform 9 lay hidden beyond a narrow passage between two walls. The lights flickered faintly here. The air felt heavier, thicker, as though breathing itself required effort.
The mist was denser.
Silence dominated.
No chatter.
No footsteps.
No birds.
Only the faint hum of something unseen.
Then he saw it.
The train.
Its metal was dark—too dark—almost absorbing the light around it.
"There we go…" Nicolas muttered.
His voice sounded wrong here.
Muted.
He stepped forward.
Each footstep echoed strangely, as if the platform were hollow beneath him.
Nicolas hesitated.
His heart pounded.
Something deep within him knows there is something in it, so he should stop.
But he didn't.
He stepped inside.
The doors closed.
A hiss.
The train began to move.
MEANWHILE — AT THE TICKET COUNTER
"Sir, why aren't you giving tickets? The line is piling up—"
The man who entered the booth froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
His knees buckled.
Then—
He screamed.
The original booking clerk lay slumped against the wall.
His eyes were crushed inward, as if something had pressed into his skull with unnatural force.
His mouth hung open in silent agony.
His skin was pale—unnaturally pale.
No blood.
Not a single drop.
His body looked… emptied.
Like something had drained him.
Like something had sucked the life out of him.
The mist curled around his corpse.
Alive.***