Great! For Chapter Four, we'll slowly pull another thread into focus — int
Kael didn't believe in fate.
But he believed in signs.
The old station near his apartment was one such sign. Platform Thirteen had been closed for years. The trains never stopped there anymore — or so the announcements claimed. But Kael had heard otherwise.
He didn't care for ghost stories. Not really.
But he kept hearing that low hum when he walked past.
A sound no one else seemed to notice.
---
That morning, the sky hung low with grey. The city's usual rhythm — honking cars, murmured conversations, distant laughter — felt muffled, like someone had placed a hand over the mouth of the world.
Kael stood at the edge of Platform Twelve.
He wasn't waiting for a train. He never was.
He just came here sometimes… to think.
> "I'm not like them," he would whisper, watching people walk by, never looking up.
"Not really."
He carried a small notebook with him. Not for drawing. Not for class. Just for thoughts — things he couldn't say aloud.
Flipping through the pages, one line stood out, even though he didn't remember writing it:
> "Three threads. One cut. One bound. One lost."
He stared at the ink, cold creeping into his hands.
That's when he noticed the door.
Metal. Rusted. Bolted shut.
It hadn't been there yesterday — he was sure of it.
Above it, a faded sign:
"AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY — Platform Thirteen"
The hum was louder now.
No one else on the platform reacted.
No eyes glanced his way.
But Kael felt it.
The pull.
---
Behind him, a girl passed — headphones in, eyes down. But for a second, her reflection in the glass of the ticket booth wasn't hers.
Golden eyes.
Hair that shimmered like frost.
Then it was gone.
Kael blinked.
What the hell is happening?
---
He took one step toward the door.
Just one.
And it breathed.
Not opened. Not moved.
But something from the other side exhaled — slow, ancient, as if it had been waiting.
For him.