Chapter 1
Page 1
The gentle rocking of the train usually sent me to sleep within minutes. After a year of the same commute, my body knew every bump of the tracks. And after treating thirty patients with barely a break, I was usually too tired to keep my eyes open.
But this afternoon, Friday the 21st of April, 2023, something was different.
The lazy afternoon sun slanted through the windows, warm on my face, and still I couldn't close my eyes.
It was because of the man sitting opposite me.
Something about him was familiar. It wasn't his sharp jaw, or his blue eyes that never lifted from his newspaper. It wasn't his neat grey hat, his crisp black suit or his polished black shoes, though they made him look important.
It was the pen in his breast pocket.
I knew that pen.
Page 2
For thirty minutes, people came and went. And for thirty minutes, the man didn't lift his eyes from the same spot on his newspaper. He wasn't reading. He was pretending to read.
That gave me the courage to study him carefully, from his hat to his shoes, and back to the pen.
I had the same pen at home. Silver, heavy, with three small letters engraved along the side: PFC. The Peace of Future Committee.
It had belonged to my father. I found it in his office after he disappeared.
That was seven years ago.
The police gave up after two weeks. Mum, slowly and painfully, learned to accept it. But I never did. I still left the porch light on every evening, just in case. I still cooked his favourite meal on Sundays and set out a plate that nobody touched.
I read every theory, followed every rumour. Some were ridiculous. Some were frighteningly possible. But the only real clue I had was that pen, wrapped in a handkerchief in a small box under my bed.
Until now.
Page 3
I swallowed hard. My fingers curled into fists on my lap.
The train plunged into a tunnel, and the lights flickered. My heartbeat matched the clatter of the wheels. Ta-dum. Ta-dum. Ta-dum.
Was I imagining things? Could this stranger be the key to my father's disappearance?
He didn't look like my father, or like any of his colleagues I remembered. He was younger, perhaps in his mid-forties, with a quiet, watchful kind of authority. If he was connected to the PFC, why was he here, on my train, pretending to read the same paragraph for half an hour?
At the next stop, the last few passengers stepped off. Now it was just the two of us.
I leaned forward. "Excuse me."
Nothing. Not a flicker.
I cleared my throat. "That's an interesting pen you have there."
This time, his fingers tightened on the newspaper. But he still didn't look up.
"I have one just like it," I said, keeping my voice steady.
Page 4
Slowly, he folded the newspaper and laid it on his knee. Then he raised his piercing blue eyes to mine.
"Is that so?" His voice was smooth and calm, but underneath there was something careful, like a man stepping onto thin ice.
I nodded. "My father had one. He disappeared seven years ago."
Something shifted in his face, a tiny tightening around his eyes.
"Disappeared," he repeated quietly.
"He worked in government intelligence. At least, that's what we were told. Then one day he simply didn't come home. The police never found a single trace."
The man studied me for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out the pen. He turned it slowly between his fingers, as though he were seeing it for the first time.
"This isn't just a pen," he murmured.
With one quick twist, he turned the barrel.
Page 5
Click.
A tiny panel slid open on the side of the pen. Inside lay a minuscule chip, no bigger than a fingernail. He held it up between his finger and thumb.
"Your father didn't disappear," he said. "He was erased."
The air left my lungs. "What… what do you mean?"
The train began to slow. He glanced towards the doors.
"If you want answers, you'll have to come with me. Now."
Every sensible part of me screamed no. But this was the first real lead I had found in seven long years.
The doors hissed open. He stood, slipped the chip back into the pen and tucked it away.
"Your father left this behind for a reason," he said, stepping towards the platform. "Make your choice."
The departure chime rang out. I had only seconds.
And then I stood up.
Chapter 2
Page 6
A wave of passengers spilled onto the platform, and I let it carry me out. Behind me, the train doors slid shut with a soft hiss, as if sealing my fate.
I kept my eyes fixed on his slim figure and hurried after him. Not once did he turn around to check whether I was following. Would I regret this one day, chasing a stranger off a train because of a pen?
He chose the stairs instead of the escalator, where the crowd thinned and drained away in every direction. At the top, he turned left, into a quieter wing far from the rush of commuters. The air grew cooler and emptier. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.
He walked without hurrying, as if he already knew I would follow him anywhere.
My pulse hammered against my ribs. Every step felt heavy with seven years of unanswered questions. Is he alive, Dad? Are you somewhere out there?
And for the first time in a very long time, a small, fragile hope began to glow inside me.
Page 7
At the far end of the corridor, he stopped beside a locked service door. A faded sign clung to the wall, its letters barely readable:
ECLIPSE STATION – PLATFORM 4 – MAINTENANCE
Eclipse. The word lodged itself in my mind like a warning.
Without looking back, he took out the pen and pressed it against a small panel beside the door.
Click.
The door slid open a few inches, just enough for one person. He held it with one hand and, for the first time, looked straight at me. His eyes glinted in the dim light.
"This is where it begins."
Behind him, a narrow stairwell disappeared down into darkness, deep into the belly of the station.
My mouth went dry. Every logical part of me begged me to turn around and walk back into the safe, noisy crowd. What on earth was I getting myself into?
But the pen. The chip. My father.
It was all tied to this moment.
Page 8
He tilted his head, watching me closely. "You want the truth? Then step inside. If not, forget you ever saw me."
The door began to swing shut.
At that exact moment, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I nearly jumped out of my skin. The screen lit up with my wife's name.
Dinner's ready, love. You're not going to be late again, are you? 💛
For one heartbeat, the real world pulled at me: our cosy new apartment, the smell of Julie's cooking, her laugh, the one person who understood all my ups and downs. A sharp fear pierced my chest. What if I could never go back to us?
I'm sorry, Julie. I have to know.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and lunged through the gap just before the door closed.
The smell of dust and metal filled my nose. The noise of the city faded away above me, and with it, the warmth of home, as if I had stepped into another world.
The door shut behind me with a heavy, final thud.
"From here," the man said, his voice low and steady, "there is no going back."