Arthur’s smile cracked. His skin flaked like burnt paper. Behind him, the other passengers began to fade—not into nothing, but into real people again. The woman in 6D blinked, her throat whole. The man in 6B groaned and rubbed his neck.

Only Arthur looked the same. And he was smiling now.

No letter. Just “6.”

But every June, on the 15th, she receives a postcard. No return address. Just a picture of the old Stamford station. And on the back, in neat, elegant type:

He was tall, with the forgotten-collar of a man who’d once been fastidious. His name, according to the ticket clipped above his head, was Arthur. Arthur hadn’t spoken since New Haven. He just stared out the window, watching his own ghost reflect back at him.

Below it, in small, elegant type: Boarding at: Stamford, 1997. Destination: Not Applicable.

“It knows my name,” he whispered. “I took the fifth seat. But it’s the sixth it wants.”

“You hear it too,” Eleanor whispered.