Have you ever wondered if the places you pass through every day have their own set of unwritten rules?
Take the train station, for example. You think the schedule says what time it arrives, the announcement says which platform it stops at, passengers get on and off—everything seems clear.
But some rules aren't written on paper, posted on bulletin boards, or mentioned during staff training. These rules pass from old employees' mouths, whispered during night shift handovers, only regretted after something goes wrong.
I worked as a platform attendant at Jiangbei Station for three years. Only yesterday did I realize some rules aren't meant to be followed—they're meant to keep you alive.
My name is Li Yuan. Three years ago, after graduating from junior college, I got into the railway system and was assigned to Jiangbei Station as a platform attendant. It sounds fancy, but basically I ran around the platforms, guided passengers on and off trains, handled emergencies, and occasionally helped carry wheelchairs.
Day shifts were tiring but busy and lively. Night shifts were different, especially in the early hours— the whole platform felt like another world, cold and empty.
Jiangbei Station isn't large: four tracks and five platforms for regular trains, two tracks and two platforms for high-speed rail, plus a few freight lines. The night shift runs from 10 PM to 6 AM, with four hours of rest in between. But you can never really sleep, because you never know when the walkie-talkie will crackle to life.
That day was my third consecutive night shift. Colleague Lao Zhou had taken sick leave, and the team leader asked me to cover for him. I hadn't slept properly in three days; I felt like I was floating.
At 2:13 AM, the last regular train pulled in. Train K527 from South City, scheduled to arrive at 2:10 AM—three minutes late.
I stood on Platform 5, holding that old signal lamp. It was a rechargeable LED, its white beam cutting through the darkness for dozens of meters. I was alone on the platform; the silence was so thick I could hear my breath echoing under the waiting shed roof.
In the distance, the rhythmic clank of wheels on rails: clank, clank, steady as a metronome. Then the train's headlights appeared around the bend, casting long shadows on the tracks as it approached.
The train slowed, and the air filled with the acrid smell of brake pads. I'd breathed this scent for three years, was used to it. But that night, something else mingled with it—like the fishy, damp mud of summer riverbanks.
The train stopped. But the doors didn't open.
I froze, checking my work schedule again. K527 was supposed to stop at Jiangbei for two minutes to load and unload passengers before continuing north. The train was perfectly still, no wheel slippage on the rails, yet all those doors remained tightly shut, silent as tombs.
I walked toward the front of the train and flashed my signal lamp at the driver's window.
The train's main lights were off; the driver's window was pitch black. I flashed the lamp again, switching to the standard night signal—alternating red and yellow.
A light flickered inside the window—a flashlight, flashing twice in acknowledgment.
And then nothing.
The doors stayed closed.
I picked up my walkie-talkie, switched to the operations channel, and pressed the button: "Operations Room, Platform 5. K527 has stopped but hasn't opened doors for boarding. Please confirm."
Static crackled, then Lao Liu's voice came through, thick as if he'd stuffed a walnut in his mouth: "Platform 5, K527 is scheduled to pass through, not stop."
I checked my schedule again. It clearly said "K527 Jiangbei Station 02:10/02:12." The platform clock read 02:15—three minutes past the scheduled departure time.
"Operations Room, Platform 5. My schedule shows a two-minute stop. I received no change notification."
Silence for a few seconds. Lao Liu's voice was clearer this time: "Xiao Li, that's an old schedule. K527 stopped stopping at Jiangbei at the beginning of this month. Dispatch ordered it. The passenger system should have updated too. Confirm when you get back."
I hung up, feeling uneasy. If the stop was canceled long ago, why did the train slow down and pull in? Why did it stop so precisely? Why did the driver acknowledge me with the flashlight?
Even stranger—the carriage lights were all on.
The generator car at Carriage 6 hummed steadily, casting a pale glow on the platform. I glanced at the windows almost by instinct.
Several people stood inside, right by the glass, facing outward. Through the window, their faces were indistinct, but they looked like ordinary passengers—some with bags, some empty-handed, standing silently, their gaze fixed on me through the glass.
My first thought: Why aren't they getting off? The train's stopped, doors aren't open—they must be anxious. I walked to the nearest door, raised my hand to knock, wanting to tell the conductor someone needed to get off.
The platform lights shone upward from below, illuminating the lower half of the window. I could see their feet—bare feet, planted on the carriage floor, toes pointing toward me. Wet feet, leaving dark water rings on the floor.
It was late November. Nighttime temperatures in Jiangbei dropped below five degrees Celsius. Who rides a train barefoot?
My hand froze mid-air. As the thought registered, the person standing closest lowered their head, as if watching my movement. Then they looked up, mouth slightly open, as if speaking.
I couldn't hear through the glass, but I read their lips.
They said: "Open the door."
I stepped back.
That single step made everyone in the carriage turn toward me simultaneously. Like someone had barked a command, they all tilted their heads in unison, their gaze converging on me.
A chill ran down my spine. I turned and hurried toward the front of the train.
The conductor stood at the door of the first carriage behind the locomotive, wearing the dark blue uniform, cap pulled low, also holding a signal lamp. But his lamp was off, hanging uselessly at his side like a dead weight.
"Sir," I approached him. "Shouldn't your train stop at Jiangbei? Why aren't the doors open? There are passengers who need to get off."
The conductor looked up at me. Under the streetlamp, his face was pale, lips colorless, with deep bags under his eyes. He stared at me for two seconds, then said something I still can't understand.
"No one's getting off."
I glanced back at the window. Those figures were still pressed against the glass, clear as day.
"There are people, several of them," I said.
The conductor suddenly grabbed my arm—his grip was unnaturally strong. He pulled me back a step, voice low: "Stop looking."
I stumbled, nearly dropping my signal lamp. I tried to shake him off, but his fingers clamped down like iron vice grips, nails digging into my forearm.
"If no one gets off, the doors stay closed," his voice dropped even lower, half-muttering to himself, half-warning me. "That's the rule."
"What rule? I've worked here three years and never heard of this rule."
The conductor said nothing, released my arm, and turned toward the carriage connection. His silhouette looked unreal in the dim light—like a paper cutout pasted on a backdrop, only the dark blue uniform reflecting a faint sheen.
I stood watching him walk to the connection and bend into a space I couldn't see. Seconds later, the train released a long hiss of air brakes, the entire train shuddering slightly.
Then it moved.
Train K527 slowly pulled out of Platform 5, its headlights flaring back to life, white beam sweeping across the winding tracks ahead as it gathered speed.
The carriage lights flashed past my eyes one by one, the faces pressed against the windows passing with them. Every window had several people, all barefoot, all tilting their heads at the same angle to watch me.
As the last few carriages rolled by, I saw a little girl standing behind the final window—maybe seven or eight years old, wearing a red padded jacket, hair in two braids.
She pressed her palm against the glass, as if waving goodbye. But her face was as blank as a sheet of paper, no expression at all.
After the train disappeared around the bend, silence returned to the platform. Only the electronic clock's second hand ticked: tick, tick, tick.
I looked down at my arm. Five deep red finger marks were clearly visible on my forearm, already turning purple. I rubbed them, knowing this couldn't end here. If K527 was indeed canceled at Jiangbei, it shouldn't have pulled in, let alone stopped. If it wasn't canceled, then not opening the doors was a serious operational incident—and as platform attendant, I'd be held responsible.
I took a photo of the finger marks with my phone, noted the train number and exact time in my log, then walked back along the platform to find Lao Liu in the operations room.
I stopped after about twenty steps.
Because I saw something new on the platform floor.
A trail of clear footprints on the dry concrete.
The footprints looked like they'd just stepped out of water, the damp patches still spreading on the ground like dark flowers blooming from beneath. They started from the carriage door, followed the platform edge, and led toward the entrance of the underground passage.
Not shoe prints—bare footprints.
I squatted to examine them closely. The toe shapes were distinct, the arch of the foot perfectly formed. The second toe on the left foot was longer than the others—a typical Greek foot.
Normally, I might have found this interesting, noting the arch height and gait. But now I just felt my scalp prickle.
The platform was dry.
I pressed my palm to the ground—dry, cold concrete, no dampness anywhere. Yet those footprints were clearly etched there, the water slowly evaporating into the air, edges blurring.
I stood up and looked toward the exit.
The underground passage lights were dim yellow, the long ramp leading down to the first basement level's exit hall. Footprints were there too, also wet, leading upward all the way.
How many pairs? I counted roughly—three. Two large pairs with wide strides, like adults; one small pair with short strides, like a child's.
How many people did I see in the windows? I hadn't counted precisely, but definitely more than three. The ones by the windows plus the little girl in the red jacket—at least six or seven.
Which meant only some of them had gotten off.
As this thought emerged, my feet were already following those footprints. I didn't know why—I suppose curiosity, or a sense of duty, or something else pushing me forward.
I knew I should call security on the walkie-talkie instead of going into the underground passage alone.
But I didn't.
The passage lights were motion-activated. When I stepped inside, the fluorescent tube flickered twice, failed to light, flickered twice more, then buzzed to life with a low hum.
The light was dim—the sickly white of a dying fluorescent bulb—casting a cold, hospital-corridor glow over the tiled walls.
The footprints were even clearer on the light gray tiles. The damp patches reflected the light, as if someone had just stepped out of water and walked onto this dry passage.
The passage wasn't long—maybe forty meters—but that night it felt like an eternity. Every few steps, the tube behind me would click off automatically. My footsteps echoed through the empty passage, sounding not like one person walking,
but several, their paces mismatched, blending together indistinctly.
At the end of the passage was the exit hall, the ticket gates, and beyond that the square. After the last train departed, Jiangbei Station's exit hall stayed lit but empty—not even a cleaner in sight.
I stopped at the passage entrance, not going further.
The footprints ended at the exit hall.
Not vanished—merged with the floor. The hall had light gray marble floors with white veins, usually spotless but now looking icy cold under this light.
The footprints extended about ten steps from the passage entrance, then the damp patches grew fainter and fainter until they disappeared entirely.
I squatted to examine them. A thin layer of moisture coated the marble surface—like the fog left when you breathe on cold glass. It wouldn't wet your hand if you touched it, but you could feel its chill.
That moisture stretched toward the ticket gates, passed through the automatic glass doors, and onto the square outside.
I stood at the gates and looked out.
The square was empty. Streetlights stretched the shadows of trees long across the ground. Wind swirled fallen leaves up and let them fall again. The bus stop across the square was dark—the last bus had left hours ago. An occasional car passed on the distant road, headlights sweeping across then away, like a blinking eye.
No one was in the square.
No barefoot people, no little girl in a red jacket. Nothing.
It was 3 AM when I wrote up the incident in my duty log. After finishing, I reread it—every word was true, but together they sounded like a tall tale.
I hesitated, tore that page out, and rewrote it more succinctly: "Train K527 departed Platform 5 at 02:15. No passenger loading/unloading occurred. Platform order maintained."
Then I signed my name and closed the logbook.
At 4 AM, Lao Zhou called to ask how my night shift was. I sat in the duty room, leaning back in my chair with half a cup of cold tea, thought for a long time about what to say, then just said, "Fine, just tired."
Lao Zhou laughed on the other end: "You've covered my shifts for three days now—hard work. Hey, when you go to Platform 5 at night, watch yourself."
My heart skipped a beat. "Watch what?"
"Nothing much," Lao Zhou's voice sounded vague. "Just a colleague told me once—sometimes at midnight, Platform 5 gets wet footprints. Never seen it myself, just heard it mentioned. Anyway, stay safe."
"Wet footprints?"
Lao Zhou yawned: "I don't know details, just old stories. Alright, got to go."
He hung up.
I sat in the duty room, drained the cold tea—tea leaves bitter on my tongue. I logged onto the internal railway system and checked K527's schedule.
The system showed that as of this month, K527 had indeed canceled its Jiangbei stop, changed to a technical pass-through. The arrival/departure times had been removed from the schedule. The ticketing system also showed no Jiangbei Station for K527.
So Lao Liu was right—K527 wasn't supposed to stop at Jiangbei.
But it did.
Not only stopped, but for nearly four minutes. Not only stopped four minutes, but something got off. Not only got off, but walked barefoot across the dry platform, into the exit passage, toward who knows where.
I shut down the computer, leaned back, and closed my eyes. My mind raced—one moment the conductor's finger marks on my arm, then the faces pressed against the windows, then the little girl's expressionless face.
I tried to convince myself it was a hallucination. Three consecutive night shifts, sleep deprivation, mental exhaustion—you can see anything. Those footprints on the platform—maybe I stepped in something wet myself? No, I was wearing shoes, soles dry.
Maybe a leaking pipe in the underground passage? No, I'd walked that passage countless times, never seen a leak.
Only one explanation remained. I was losing my mind.
At 5:40 AM, the sky wasn't bright yet, but the eastern horizon was turning pale. I packed up to leave. Passing Platform 5, I detoured to check.
The footprints were gone. The platform was spotless, like nothing had happened. The morning shift attendant was already there, signal lamp in hand, doing pre-shift equipment checks. He nodded when he saw me: "Brother Yuan, how was last night?"
"Fine," I said.
He rubbed his hands: "Alright, go get some rest."
As I walked out the exit, I glanced at the automatic glass doors. They were closed, blue "Keep Clear" signs taped to them. The floor was dry, the marble reflecting a cold sheen under the fluorescent lights.
Nothing there.
I boarded the bus home. The carriage was nearly empty—just a few elderly passengers. I took a window seat, resting my head against the cold glass, watching the streets slowly brighten in the dawn.
My phone vibrated. It was the team leader: "Xiao Li, need to talk to you. Come to the office before your shift."
I replied "Okay" and put the phone away, continuing to stare out the window.
The bus stopped at a red light beside an elementary school. A few students were already walking in. A little girl with a pink backpack and school uniform skipped through the gate, her bag's charms jingling.
Watching her back, a memory flashed—the little girl in the red jacket standing behind the train window, pressing her palm to the glass and making a gesture.
I thought it was a wave goodbye.
But now I realized her palm wasn't waving—it was pointing. She'd traced something on the glass with her finger, like writing.
From outside, the characters were reversed. I hadn't recognized them at the time.
I closed my eyes, struggling to recall. The little girl's hand moved slowly across the foggy glass—one horizontal stroke, one vertical stroke, another horizontal, another vertical, another horizontal, another vertical.
It was the character "zheng" (正)—meaning "upright" or "count."
She'd written a "zheng" character.
Then she pressed her palm over the character and tilted her head to look at me.
I jolted awake, heart racing. Suddenly, I realized—I'd seen that little girl somewhere before, long before standing on Platform 5, long before seeing K527 pull in.
Not on that train.
About three days ago.
The afternoon Lao Zhou took sick leave.
I was packing in the break room, getting ready for my shift. Lao Zhou's locker was unlocked, half-open, stuffed full of things. Inside, a photo frame leaned in the back, showing a corner.
I hadn't meant to look, but the frame faced me perfectly—I couldn't help but see it. It was a photo of Lao Zhou and a little girl, maybe seven or eight, wearing a red padded jacket, hair in two braids.
I'd wondered at the time—when did Lao Zhou have a daughter? Never heard him mention it.
Now I remembered.
The little girl in the photo was the same one from the train window. Same red jacket, same braids, same expressionless face.
The bus stopped. I got off, standing on the sidewalk for a long time. Then I took out my phone and called Lao Zhou.
The phone rang for a long time—no answer.
I called again. This time it connected, but no one spoke—just static, like a radio tuned to the wrong frequency.
"Lao Zhou?" I called into the receiver.
Static.
"Lao Zhou, who's that little girl in your photo frame?"
Static.
"Lao Zhou?"
The static stopped for a split second, then a voice came through. Not Lao Zhou's—a little girl's voice, clear and crisp, as if calling from an empty space.
"Uncle, did you open the door?"
The call dropped.
I stood on the November morning street, phone in hand, a cold chill seeping from my bones. The morning wind rushed through the intersection, rustling the trees. Passersby hurried past, bundled in coats.
Someone glanced at me—probably thought the young man standing frozen in the middle of the street was crazy.
I took a deep breath and lit up my phone screen. The call log showed the last call to Lao Zhou lasted forty-seven seconds.
But after hearing the little girl's voice, the call ended in at most two or three seconds.
I held the phone to my ear—silence, just the normal standby hum.
I checked the call log again. The number had changed. Forty-seven seconds became two seconds.
Not forty-seven seconds—two seconds.
I stared at "00:02" for ten full seconds, then locked the screen, stuffed the phone in my pocket, and turned toward home. My steps were much faster than usual—almost running.
I can't think about this anymore. I don't want to think about it. This has nothing to do with me. I'm just a platform attendant. I just do my job. K527 doesn't stop at Jiangbei anymore—so it won't come again.
Lao Zhou's on sick leave—I'll cover for him until he's back, then I won't have to worry about any of this. That little girl, those wet footprints, that conductor—all hallucinations from three nights without sleep.
I'm just tired.
I got home, took a hot shower, turning the water up as high as it would go—scalding hot, making my skin red and sore. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror. I wiped a patch clear and saw my reflection—deep bags under my eyes, gray complexion, looking like I hadn't slept in three days.
I dried off and went to the bedroom, drew the curtains tight, and collapsed onto the bed.
I don't know how long I slept when a sound woke me.
Not an alarm, not my phone—water dripping. Drip, drip, drip, like a faucet left running, each drop hitting the tile at regular intervals, steady as a metronome.
I opened my eyes and looked at the alarm clock—2:15 PM. A thin line of light peeked through the curtain, drawing a white line across the opposite wall.
The dripping continued.
I got up and went to the bathroom. The faucet was off—twisted it, wouldn't budge. The toilet tank was full, no leaks. I stood there listening, realizing the sound wasn't coming from the bathroom—it was coming from the living room.
I walked into the living room.
A trail of wet footprints covered the floor.
Starting from my bedroom door, crossing the living room, leading toward the security door. Bare footprints, exactly like the ones I'd seen on the platform last night—each toe perfectly formed, damp patches spreading on the wooden floor, leaving dark rings.
But I live on the twelfth floor.
The hallway is dry. The door is locked. Nothing outside the peephole. The windows are closed, no holes in the screens.
I stood in the living room for a long time—so long my feet went numb. Then I grabbed the mop and carefully wiped up all the water marks. The water squeezed from the mop was clear, no color, no smell—just plain water.
I put the mop away, went back to the bedroom, and lay down again.
But I couldn't close my eyes.
I took out my phone, opened the photo album, and found the picture I took last night—the five finger marks on my arm. The photo was still there, the marks clear, but their color had changed. Last night they were purplish; now they were gray-black, like something rotting beneath the skin.
I scrolled through my contacts to Lao Zhou's number, hesitated for a long time, then put the phone down without calling.
I held the phone against my chest, staring at the ceiling light. A dead fly was stuck inside the lampshade, dried out who knows how long ago, leaving a small black spot on the white shade.
I suddenly remembered something.
Lao Zhou taking sick leave.
He said he had a cold, sore throat, couldn't speak. But when he came to ask for leave, I happened to be in the office for the shift change. I watched him walk in—wearing a dark blue railway uniform, cap pulled low.
Cap pulled low.
That conductor had also pulled his cap low.
I sat up abruptly.
Lao Zhou took sick leave three days ago. He didn't say much to me—just told the team leader "three days off" and left. I thought he looked unwell then, lips pale, like he hadn't slept. But thinking back, when he walked into the office, his feet were wet.
It hadn't rained that day.
The office floor was dry.
He'd left a trail of wet footprints on the dry floor.
I picked up my phone, no hesitation this time, and dialed Lao Zhou. The phone rang three times and connected.
"Hello." It was Lao Zhou's voice, hoarse as sandpaper on rust.
"Lao Zhou, tell me the truth—did you see something on Platform 5 that night too?"
Silence on the other end. So long I thought he'd hung up.
Then he spoke.
"Xiao Li, don't ask."
"Lao Zhou!"
"I said don't ask!" His voice suddenly rose, the hoarseness mixed with a fear I'd never heard before. "What you saw—pretend you didn't see it. Do you hear me? Pretend nothing happened! Stop investigating! Stop asking! Or you'll..."
He stopped abruptly.
A sound came from the phone.
Static.
Then the little girl's voice—much clearer this time, like she was standing right next to the receiver, speaking directly into it.
"Uncle, did you help me open the door?"
Lao Zhou's breathing became ragged, like a drowning man gasping for air. Then something shattered—a loud crash—and the call ended.
I called back. Phone off.
Called again. Still off.
I sat on the bed, trembling all over. Fear welled up from deep within, wave after wave, impossible to suppress.
I'd always thought I was helping the conductor, dealing with a train that shouldn't have stopped. I'd always thought I was doing my job—waiting for passengers to disembark, guiding them out.
But that little girl kept asking the same question.
"Uncle, did you help me open the door?"
Not open the door for them to get off.
Open the door for them to get on.
Train K527, the last train of the night. The rule is: "If no one gets off, the doors stay closed."
But what if the people on the train aren't trying to get off?
What if they're trying to get on?
I slowly turned my head toward the living room. Sunlight peeked through the slightly parted curtain, drawing a thin line of light across the floor. That line fell exactly where the wet footprints had disappeared.
Right at the edge of that light, a small puddle of water had formed on the floor.
I'd cleaned them all up.
That puddle was slowly growing, spreading like something seeping up from beneath the floor—silently, spreading a thin film of water across the surface. The water reflected the ceiling light, and something else—a red shadow, small, standing in the reflection.
With two braids.
I stared at the water. The red shadow slowly raised its hand, tracing something in the air.
One horizontal stroke, one vertical stroke, another horizontal, another vertical, another horizontal, another vertical.
Zheng.
The fifth stroke.
She'd drawn the fifth stroke.
I heard a sound coming from the water—muffled, distant, like through a layer of something, but every word clear as day.
"Uncle, just one more stroke."
"Will you help me?"