Platform 13

Platform 13

The U-Bahn is a digestive tract of steel and stale ozone, and in 2031 it has begun to suffer from indigestion.

Lena sits in the narrow driver’s cabin of the U4, one hand on the control lever. Twenty-eight years old, perpetually tired, she prefers the predictable rhythm of the Wiener Linien to the messy variables of her own life.

The glitch began on a Tuesday. The display flickered, then settled on a number that should not exist: 13.

The train did not stop at Schwedenplatz. It slid into a long, unlit platform that smelled of wet limestone and burned hair. The doors opened with their usual flat chime.

They boarded in ones and twos. Silent figures. Lukas from the summer of 2026. Frau Hruschka, the old neighbor she had ignored. Others followed — faces she had once found inconvenient.

They sat without speaking. They left no indentation on the seats.

Lena kept driving. The tunnel walls were no longer concrete. They were covered in a slick, pulsing green moss that throbbed in time with her own heartbeat. It pressed against the windows like living veins.

In the reflection of the glass she saw herself, and behind her the silent passengers.

A man entered the cabin. It was her father. He wore the same cheap wool coat from her graduation. He pointed to the red emergency brake.

Lena reached for it. Her fingers moved as if directed by someone else. She pulled.

The train did not slow. It accelerated deeper into the glowing green darkness.