At midnight, every screen in the station went blank. Every screen but one. A single red line blinked across it, followed by three words: FOLLOW THE LIGHT.
Iris stepped onto the empty platform in scarlet gloss and long gloves. The black lines of her harness framed her shoulders like punctuation. She had spent years learning how to disappear. Tonight, the entire plan depended on being seen.
Across the tracks, a courier clutched a case holding the neighbourhood’s lost records: names, photographs, letters, the small proof that people had lived there. Iris walked into the pool of light beneath the clock. Behind her, the courier slipped through an open service door.
The screen returned to life. A thousand family photographs spread across the station wall. Iris smiled, turned on her heel and vanished into the first train of the morning. The signal had never been a warning. It had been an invitation to remember.
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