[SYSTEM RECORD: FILE #023]Subject: Chronological Mapping / Mislaid Property ProtocolLocation: Taichung Train Station, Platform 0 (Sorting Center)Time: 07:25 AM

  [Investigator's Record]

  I shoved the dead pager deep into my pocket and looked up. The true scale of the sorting center loomed before me.

  It wasn’t a station concourse. It was an industrial processing plant disguised as public infrastructure.

  The cold terrazzo floor stretched out into a hazy vanishing point, unbroken by any benches, kiosks, or signs of human comfort. Instead, the space was dominated by a colossal mechanical split-flap display board suspended from the exposed concrete ceiling.

  It was the size of a movie theater screen.

  Thousands of black plastic cards clattered continuously, spinning in a deafening, insect-like wave of clicking plastic.

  I stood frozen, my ruined left arm pressed tight against my ribs, and watched the rows lock into place.

  The columns didn't list standard Taiwanese cities.

  [TIME] | [DATE] | [ORIGIN] | [PLATFORM] | [STATUS]19:20 | 02-15-1995 | Taikang Road | 00 | PURGED19:20 | 02-15-1995 | Taikang Road | 00 | PURGED19:22 | 02-15-1995 | Taikang Road | 00 | INCINERATED19:25 | 02-15-1995 | Taikang Road | 00 | ASPHYXIATED

  Row after row, the same date, the same origin.

  February 15, 1995. The exact timestamp on the dead pager. Taikang Road—the address of the Welcome Restaurant.

  Ding-Dong.

  The PA system chimed. The cheerful, deadened female voice returned.

  "Attention. Unregistered payload detected beyond the quarantine barrier. Routing error. Item lacks valid chronology."

  I kept my right hand hovering near my pocket. The system hadn't deployed the bear-trap mechanics again. It was trying to categorize me.

  "Initiating mislaid property protocol. Unregistered payload, please proceed to the Lost and Found department in Sector C for immediate archival."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A single strip of harsh fluorescent lights flickered to life, cutting a straight, illuminated path across the dim terrazzo floor. It pointed diagonally toward the far left corner of the cavernous hall.

  I looked at the path. Then I looked at the dark perimeter outside the light.

  In the shadows, between the heavy concrete pillars, I could hear the faint, wet slap-drag of bare feet. Not just one pair. Dozens. The unseen entities from the queue hadn't disappeared; they were just waiting in the dark, processed and sorted.

  If I stepped off the illuminated path, I would be walking directly into their designated storage zones.

  I kept my boots inside the light.

  With every step, the friction burn on my left elbow flared, the makeshift jacket sling pulling tightly against the back of my neck.

  The illuminated path ended at a heavy, frosted glass door set into a cinderblock wall.

  Faded black stenciled letters on the glass read: LOST & FOUND / ARCHIVE.

  There was no handle. Just a small, rusted sliding ticket window built into the center of the door, completely shut.

  I stood in front of the frosted glass. Behind it, a single, weak yellow bulb cast a sickly glow.

  I could see a silhouette. Someone—or something—was sitting behind the glass, waiting.

  SKRRRT.

  The rusted sliding ticket window slammed open with the screech of metal on metal.

  I didn't see a face. Just a dark, cramped cubicle smelling of ozone and rotting paper. A shallow stainless-steel transaction tray was pushed out through the gap.

  The intercom speaker crackled. The deadened female voice spoke directly from the box.

  "Unregistered payload. Deposit collateral to generate a temporary transit manifest. Failure to provide sufficient chronological weight will result in immediate incineration."

  Collateral.

  They didn't want money. They wanted something that belonged to the system.

  My right hand was still in my pocket. My fingers brushed the pager.

  No. It was a virus. It would get me purged.

  I pushed past the plastic and grabbed the freezing metal. The heavy brass key. My only leverage. The only way back to the locomotive.

  Beep. The intercom pulsed a flat warning tone.

  "Ten seconds to incineration."

  I pulled my trembling right hand out of my pocket. I placed the freezing brass key onto the stainless-steel tray.

  The tray snapped back into the darkness.

  Silence.

  Through the frosted glass, I watched the silhouette move. It picked up the key.

  Then came the sound of heavy gears turning, followed by a massive, definitive THUD of an industrial mechanical stamp.

  The rusted window squealed again. The tray shot back out.

  The brass key was gone.

  In its place lay a stiff, faded piece of rectangular cardboard. An old-school, Edmondson-style railway ticket.

  Printed on the thick paper was a string of faded dot-matrix text:

  [CLAIM TICKET: ITEM #404][WEIGHT: 1 SOUL][DESTINATION: WAITING ROOM B]

  I picked up the stiff cardboard. The moment my blistered fingers touched it, the frosted glass window slammed shut. The weak yellow bulb inside the office clicked off.