The Midnight Station:

The educate station changed into deserted. middle of the night had come and long past, yet Tiela stood by myself on the platform, clutching her coat tighter in opposition to the cold. The lamps flickered, casting lengthy shadows across the cracked tiles.

Why had she come here? Why had the letter insisted she arrive at nighttime? The envelope have been slipped beneath her door and not using a sender, no rationalization—handiest a unmarried line: “the next day comes to a decision everything. Meet us on the station.”

Suspense gnawed at her. Who was “us”? What changed into the next day alleged to decide?

The wind howled through the empty tracks, wearing whispers that seemed too deliberate to be risk. Tiela stepped in the direction of the brink, peering into the darkness. No train become scheduled at this hour. but the rails hummed faintly, as although something unseen changed into approaching. was she imagining it? Or became the station alive with secrets and techniques? She glanced on the clock. 12:15. the second hand ticked louder than her heartbeat.

A notebook lay at the nearest bench. She hadn’t observed it before. Its cover turned into worn, its pages yellowed. She opened it cautiously. the primary line examine: “we're the forgotten. We wait in silence.” Her breath caught. The handwriting turned into jagged, desperate. She grew to become the page.

“Do not leave. tomorrow’s music need to be sung.” What did that imply? Who had written it?

The lamps flickered again. Footsteps echoed throughout the platform. Tiela spun round, however no one changed into there. The sound grew louder, nearer, but the platform remained empty. changed into the silence playing tricks on her? Or was a person watching from the shadows?

She clutched the notebook tighter. the subsequent page had already modified, words bleeding into the paper as even though written by way of invisible fingers: “you may bring our voices.”

Her pulse raced. She desired to run, but the door to the station had locked itself. The rails groaned. A train was coming. She may want to pay attention it, sense it, even though no headlights pierced the darkness. The sound grew deafening, yet the tracks remained empty.

The pocket book trembled in her hands. some other line appeared: “Board the train, or continue to be in silence all the time.” however there was no educate. simplest the sound of 1. changed into this a test? become she supposed to step onto the tracks?

The suspense tightened around her chest. She moved closer to the threshold, staring into the void. The hum grew stronger, vibrating through her bones.

She whispered into the night time: “What do you want from me?”

The pocket book replied: “To do not forget. to speak. To sing the following day’s tune.”

Her knees weakened. She found out then—the station changed into now not haunted with the aid of ghosts. It become haunted by using silence itself. The silence of voices by no means spoken, testimonies by no means advised, lives erased.

The teach’s roar reached its peak. The lamps flared, blinding her. For a second, she concept she saw figures—shadows seated on invisible benches, faces blurred, eyes hole. They were waiting.

looking ahead to her.

She lifted the pocket book high. “i'm able to consider you,” she whispered. “i'm able to bring your voices.” The roar stopped. The silence eased. The shadows dissolved.

The door unlocked. Tiela staggered out into the night time, the pocket book pressed against her chest. in the back of her, the station fell quiet, however she knew it turned into no longer empty.

That night, she lit a candle at her desk. She commenced to write down—now not her very own tale, however theirs. each word carried weight, every sentence carried sorrow. She wrote until sunrise, until her fingers ached, until the silence finally allowed her to rest.

While morning got here, she back to the station. It was bustling once more, filled with commuters and trains. nobody noticed her notebook. nobody observed the faint hum below the tracks. but Tiela knew. She had heard the midnight voices. She had carried their silence.

And at the final web page of the notebook, a unmarried line appeared: “the following day’s song is yours now. Do not let silence win.”