Minh An found North Station at 4:11 a.m.
Only half the station's name was still legible on the ticket inside the tin box. The date had been blurred by water, but the line number remained clear: Line 4, last train.
Line 4 had been out of service for a long time.
The station lay beneath an old market, its entrance hidden behind a peeling billboard. Minh An had to pass through two unlocked iron gates and descend a dusty staircase. The deeper he went, the quieter the rain on the street grew. In its place came the steady drip of water, echoing out of the darkness.
Tung wanted to come with him.
Minh An had lied and said he was just going out for coffee.
He didn't know why he was listening to an anonymous scrap of paper, but he knew even more clearly that if he didn't come here, he wouldn't be able to think about anything else.
The old platform still had all its lamp posts. Weak yellow light pooled in streaks across the tiled floor. An electronic sign hung at the end of the tunnel, displaying the same line over and over:
LAST TRAIN — 04:17
Minh An walked closer. There were no tracks behind the sign. Only a moss-covered concrete wall.
He took out his phone. The screen was still dark, but the time displayed on it had stopped at 4:17.
A burst of static crackled from the loudspeaker.
“Passengers, please stand behind the safety line.”
Minh An looked down. A white painted line ran across the platform, so fresh there wasn't a speck of dust on its surface.
On the other side of the line, a girl was standing.
A cream-colored dress.
Her hair tied low.
Lam.
He didn't need to see her face clearly to know it was her. Recognition came before the image, like a memory someone had hidden beneath his skin had just been called awake.
“Lam?”
She raised her head.
This time there was no glass, no rain between them. They were separated only by a white painted line less than a handspan wide.
“Don't call my name.”
Her voice rang through the empty station, clearer than before but still carrying a strange distance, as though it came from a room very far away.
“Who are you?”
Lam looked at him. She seemed exhausted, her eyes red from lack of sleep.
“You've asked me that before.”
“Have we met?”
“No.”
“Then why do I know you?”
Lam lowered her gaze to her hands. A cream-colored button rested between her fingers.
“Maybe you don't know me. Maybe you only remember someone else.”
“That person is you.”
The answer left Lam silent.
Above them, the third lightbulb went out. Then the fourth. The light slowly withdrew toward the end of the platform, as if an invisible hand were pulling it away.
Minh An took one step forward.
Lam stepped forward too.
The toes of their shoes touched opposite sides of the white line.
Right between them, the air suddenly turned transparent.
Minh An saw another station behind Lam. New signs, blue-painted walls, a brightly lit train waiting beside the tracks. Lam, meanwhile, saw a ruined platform behind him, its vines having swallowed half the vaulted roof.
Two cities overlapped for a moment.
“Where are you?” Lam asked.
“North Station.”
“No. Your station.”
Minh An looked around.
“It’s North Station too.”
Lam shook her head. She raised a hand and pressed her palm into the space between them.
An invisible pane of glass appeared.
“Where I am, this station is still operating.”
Minh An placed his hand against the opposite side. His palm was ice-cold, but through the barrier, he felt the faintest trace of warmth.
Lam flinched.
“You feel it too?”
“Yeah.”
A metallic screech rose from the end of the tunnel.
The words on the electronic sign changed.
THE LAST TRAIN IS ARRIVING.
“Lam,” Minh An said, “which world are you in?”
She looked at him through the invisible pane. Her eyes gave him the feeling that she had been waiting far too long for this question.
“The world with me in it.”
“And my world?”
“Maybe it doesn't have me.”
All the lights on the platform went out at once.
The sound of a train rushing in came from both directions simultaneously. Wind churned through the tunnel, carrying the smells of mud and rust, along with a scent like dry fabric after rain.
Minh An tried to look at Lam.
Her face began to blur around the eyes.
“Don't go,” he said.
“I'm not going.”
“Then what is this?”
Lam looked down at the hand pressed against the glass.
“Something is pulling me back.”
Minh An pounded the barrier with both hands. There was no sound. No crack.
Lam pounded on the other side too.
A thin white line appeared between their palms.
“Minh An!”
“Lam!”
She was crying, but her tears didn't fall. They drifted upward and vanished into her hair.
“Don't go to Building Seventeen tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because someone there is looking for us.”
“Who?”
Lam looked behind her. In her station, a figure in a black coat had just stepped off the train.
When she turned back, only half her face remained.
“Minh An, if you hear someone calling your name—”
The train swallowed the rest.
White light swept across the platform.
Lam disappeared.
The station fell silent again. On the tiled floor, exactly where her hand had rested, lay a new train ticket, still wet.
The front was printed with a destination that appeared on no map.
THE WHITE POINT.