The Airport with No Announcements

The Airport with No Announcements

By Salah Uddin

The first thing I noticed was the silence. Not the comforting hush of early mornings or snowy forests, but a heavy kind of quiet—the kind that hums in your ears and makes you question your reality.

I had landed in Miren Stadt International on a connection gone wrong. A delay in Athens left me with no choice but to take the next flight out the following morning. “You can stay in the transit area,” the airline staff said, barely meeting my eyes. “Just don’t go beyond Gate 27.”

Odd, but I was too tired to ask questions.

By midnight, the airport was nearly empty. No overhead announcements. No music. Not even the squeak of cleaning carts. Just a few scattered passengers and the occasional distant cough. I walked past darkened food stalls and shut-down duty-free shops, hoping to find a comfortable bench.

When I reached Gate 26, I noticed something odd—a small sign, written in shaky black marker on cardboard:

“Travelers’ Lounge: Downstairs. Do not disturb the sleeping.”

I hadn’t seen any signs like it elsewhere. Curious, I followed a narrow corridor tucked behind a souvenir kiosk. There was no staff in sight, no cameras that I could spot. The hallway led to a rusted staircase lit by a single flickering bulb.

Downstairs, I found it.

A wide, dimly lit room stretched out before me, filled wall to wall with sleeping people. Some lay on yoga mats, others in sleeping bags or curled up on old airport seats arranged in makeshift rows. Everyone was perfectly still, as if frozen mid-dream.

I moved quietly, unsure if I was even supposed to be here. On a small table near the door sat a stack of handwritten notes:

• “Leave your shoes by the entrance.”

• “No phones or electronics past 1 AM.”

• “If you hear the bells, close your eyes.”

• “Please don’t ask questions.”

There was a kettle, a few mismatched mugs, and a tin of stale cookies. A black-and-white clock on the wall ticked without a second hand, stuck between 2:59 and 3:00. I glanced around—no clocks elsewhere in the airport had been working either.

I chose a corner, rolled up my jacket, and tried to sleep.

At some point—though I couldn’t say when—I heard them. Soft, distant chimes, like bells underwater. A low murmur passed through the room, but no one stirred. I squeezed my eyes shut, just in case.

The next thing I remember, I was waking up to a soft shake on my shoulder. A man in an old airport vest stood over me, smiling faintly. “Your flight boards soon,” he whispered. “Gate 28.”

I checked my phone. It was 5:17 AM. The main terminal was back to life—loud, bright, bustling.

No one spoke of the lounge. When I asked the lady at the information desk about the room beneath Gate 26, she gave me a puzzled look.

“There’s no lounge down there,” she said. “Just storage.”

I walked away, pretending not to notice the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

My plane took off into the lavender dawn. As the clouds parted below, I wondered how many others had found the silent room and what would’ve happened if I hadn’t closed my eyes when the bells rang.

Maybe some mysteries are meant to sleep undisturbed.