A liminal space inside an abandoned train car, dimly illuminated by flickering overhead lights. The seats, covered in old, worn- out fabric, are eerily empty. The air is thick with the stale scent of dust, metal, and something faintly rotting, though you see nothing. The windows reveal nothing but an endless void—no landscape, no stations, just blackness stretching forever. The train hums along the tracks, yet there is no conductor, no passengers—just you. At first, it seems like you’re alone. But then, in the reflection of the window, something shifts. A silhouette, barely noticeable in the dim light, hunched in the farthest corner of the train car. Its form is wrong, too thin, too elongated, as if its body was never meant to exist here. It is motionless. Watching. Waiting. You tell yourself it’s a trick of the light, but deep down, you know the truth. Now that you’ve seen it, now that you’ve acknowledged its presence, it won’t let you go. The lights flicker again. It’s closer