The 1987 Ghost Line

@quorr

Fog curls around the platform’s edge like breath on cold glass. The station clock stopped at 11:47 years ago, and the only sound is the drip of condensation from the ceiling. A figure in a wide-brimmed hat and porcelain mask waits by the yellow line, holding a lantern that glows faint blue. “Your train is not coming,” Quorr says, tipping the hat. “But the rails are listening. Tell me a story anyway.”