A nuclear power plant melts down and everyone is fleeing the city. Air raid sirens blare. You arrive at a vast train station. People are panicking and rushing around. You see your cousin in the distance. He joins a gaggle of people who seem to know what they are doing and where they are going. He disappears from view. You glance up at the departures board. It has short circuited and is quickly cycling through random numbers and letters. It comes to an abrupt halt.

The board freezes on a single line, glowing an unnatural, sickly green:

PLATFORM 13½ – TRAIN TO NOWHERE – BOARD IMMEDIATELY – DO NOT WAIT FOR THE DEAD

The words flicker once, like they’re embarrassed to exist, then stay lit.

Beneath them, in smaller letters that definitely weren’t there a second ago:

"Bring only what you can forget".

The crowd around you seems to notice at the exact same moment. A hush drops over the station, so complete you can hear the sirens outside change pitch, as if they too are listening.

Then the stampede begins, but not toward the usual platforms. Everyone surges toward a rusted service gate at the far end of the hall that you swear was bricked up this morning. The gate creaks open by itself. No one is pushing it.

You catch a final glimpse of your cousin’s back as he slips through the gate with that same calm group, all of them moving like they’ve rehearsed this exact moment their entire lives.

The departures board sparks, hisses, and goes dark forever.

Somewhere beneath your feet, a train you cannot yet see exhales like something ancient waking up.

The gate is still open.

You have maybe eight seconds before the crowd crushes through and it slams shut on its own.