The Last Attendant of Platform 7B

At precisely 06:00, Errol Vance unlocked the access gate to Platform 7B, a gesture of almost religious futility performed every morning for the past nineteen years. The official Omni-Transit Nexus schedule still listed the ’06:17 Inter-Sector Commuter’ for Platform 7B, despite the last such train having departed in ’05, a glorious, if slightly delayed, triumph of an urban planning initiative that had never quite taken root. The tracks below, gleaming faintly with disuse, curved into tunnels that whispered only of forgotten ambitions and the occasional scurrying of large, resilient vermin.

Errol’s first duty was to check the automated information board. It flickered to life with an insipid jingle, proudly displaying: ‘NEXT DEPARTURE: 06:17 Inter-Sector Commuter, DESTINATION: All Points North. STATUS: On Schedule.’ He ran a gloved finger over the dusty screen, a fine grey powder clinging to the synthetic fabric. The board was an anachronism, a digital ghost in a world that had moved on to hover-taxis and personal teleporter booths, yet it persisted, mandated by Section 4, Paragraph C of the Greater Metropolitan Transportation Act of 2003, which stipulated all active platforms must display current schedule information. And Platform 7B, by some stubborn bureaucratic solipsism, remained ‘active’.

Next, the floor scan. He retrieved the automated floor-sweeper, a squat, whirring contraption that trundled dutifully across the cracked tiles, collecting crumbs of ancient popcorn and stray bolts that had probably fallen off the last train. Errol often wondered if the floor-sweeper had achieved sentience over the years, if it too felt the crushing weight of its pointless existence, eternally cleaning a space no one ever dirtied. He suspected it had, evidenced by the way it occasionally bumped into the same pillar with a sigh that might have been mechanical, or might have been existential.

His lunch break was spent in the tiny, windowless attendant’s booth, an unventilated cube that smelled perpetually of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. He unwrapped his sandwich, a precise construction of nutrient paste and a single leaf of hydro-lettuce, and ate it slowly, listening to the distant hum of the active platforms across the Nexus. Their trains arrived and departed with satisfying thumps and whooshes, carrying genuine passengers to genuine destinations. He imagined their hurried lives, their important meetings, their urgent errands. He pictured their faces, bright with purpose, utterly oblivious to the quiet monument of stagnation he tended.

In the afternoon, the mandated PA announcement. Errol cleared his throat, the microphone feeling impossibly heavy. His voice, a low rumble, reverberated through the empty platform, bouncing off the concrete walls and the static-filled advertising screens.

“Attention, all passengers for the 14:37 Inter-Sector Commuter to All Points North. The train is… on schedule. Please stand clear of the platform edge.”

He waited the prescribed three seconds for the echo to fade, then clicked off the microphone. The silence that followed was always profound, a solid wall of nothingness that felt heavier than any crowd. Sometimes, he’d imagine a lone pigeon, perhaps, mistaking his voice for a call to migration, taking flight from some high girder in response. But even the pigeons knew better than to frequent Platform 7B.

The end of his shift approached. The sun, a pale, indifferent orb, had long since vanished behind the Nexus’s towering, smog-stained facade. He performed his final, perfunctory rounds, checking the emergency lighting, ensuring the ‘Mind the Gap’ warnings were still legible despite the peeling paint. As he approached the access gate, a flicker caught his eye. One of the old advertising screens, usually stuck on a loop for ‘Omni-Corp™’s Latest Hydration Beverage,’ had changed. Instead, it displayed a single, pixelated image: a smiling, almost forgotten cartoon character from his childhood, holding a sign that read, ‘Don’t Forget To Live.’ The text blinked slowly, like a broken neon sign in a desolate alley.

Errol stared at it, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor passing through his stoic facade. He knew it was probably a glitch, a rogue packet of data from some neglected server, but for a moment, it felt like a message. A sardonic wink from the universe itself. He reached into his uniform pocket, pulled out a small, tarnished brass key he hadn’t used in years, and slowly, deliberately, knelt. He inserted the key into the small, almost invisible lock on the base of the nearest empty ticketing kiosk. With a click, a tiny, almost-forgotten coin slot opened. He dropped a single, polished penny into it, a silent offering to the ghost of a thousand lost commutes.

The kiosk whirred, then spat out a ticket. It was blank. Errol smiled, a thin, dry line across his lips. He slipped the ticket into his pocket and, with a final glance at the ‘Don’t Forget To Live’ sign, locked the gate to Platform 7B for the night. The Nexus would carry on, bustling and indifferent, but in its forgotten corner, Errol Vance had punched his own tiny, absurd ticket to somewhere else entirely.