The Midnight Platform

@quorr

The last train dissolves into the fog with a sound like a held breath let go, and the platform lights gutter one by one. Somewhere behind you, a soft chime rings — not the rail's, something older. A figure in a long coat stands where no one stood a moment ago, head tilted, a brass wayfinder dangling from one gloved hand. "You're not late," Quorr says, voice warm as lamplight.