A dream aboout fear

Clouds gather thick and heavy, pressing against one another until the sky looks ready to tear open. The sunset is swallowed, as if it had never been there. Grey pours over the world, dark and absolute. The city lights flicker on. On the road, a line of cars stretches endless, unmoving, trapped in a jam that has no beginning and no end.

The first raindrop falls, slow, hesitant, onto the hood of a battered car that has forgotten the memory of soap and water. Inside, a man sits with his hands locked hard around the wheel, eyes closed, breath caught in his chest. His face is young, but his hair is white, a field of snow grown too soon. He looks emptied out, hollowed, as if nothing of him remains.

The second raindrop strikes. His eyes open. He turns left: people stand at the crosswalk, frozen mid-step, waiting for a green light that will never come. He looks forward, a sea of red brake lights stretches into infinity, no car moving. On the seat beside him lies a box, a life packed in small objects, pens, notebooks, a mug, a cracked phone, two opened letters. One is from the immigration office. The other, from his company, ending his job. On top, photographs of a family of five.

A photo of young Sami, a boy smiling with unspoiled innocence, arms wrapped around his mother, the center of his small world. Behind him, his brother mischievous, tugging at their father’s hair, the father smiling despite it, arm around a daughter who only half-smiles. For a flicker of a second, something stirs in the man’s eyes, a shimmer of emotion, the shadow of tears. Then the rain begins to fall harder, drumming against the car in a sudden torrent, drowning the city in noise, washing every window until the world beyond dissolves to faint glimmers of light.

Inside the car, the air thickens. Sami swallows hard, loosens the top button of his cheap shirt, presses his hand against his throat as if to carve space for breath. He fumbles for the window switch, it doesn’t respond. The air grows heavier, pressing against his chest. His vision blurs.

He grips the wheel tighter, honks once, twice, then leans on it with both hands, the horn screaming into the storm. No reply. No echo. Only rain hammering against glass.

Panic claws at him. He jerks the car back, slams forward again, metal kissing metal, but no one reacts. Every other driver is still, every brake light frozen, as though the whole city has stopped breathing.

His lungs burn. His skull warms. His legs tremble. The cabin shrinks around him. He slams his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. A third time. On the third, the lock gives way. He tumbles out into the rain.

Air rushes in, first breath, ragged and raw. He gulps it, stumbles forward, then runs. Rain lashes his face, his chest, washes him. He crashes against cars, against bodies on the sidewalk. He shoves through them, people unmoving, a wall of flesh and umbrellas that refuses to part. He breaks through, hips bruising, shoulders slamming, until he sees it under the storm:

The metro station. A dark mouth below the street.

He takes one last heaving breath of rain-heavy air and descends.

The stairs grow darker with each step. His sprint slows. His body bends forward, his arms heavy, as though age is draped across his back. The sound of rain fades behind him, drops growing faint as he walks deeper into the darkness. Water still trickles down his hair, his face, his collar, but he doesn’t wipe it away.
‍
Sami’s eyes fix on the floor, hollow, until he reaches a bench. He collapses forward, elbows on his knees, breathing in, breathing out.

The silence of the station swallows him. Only the occasional drip of water against his neck. He shakes, maybe crying, maybe not. No tears fall. Only rainwater. His body trembles from exhaustion, muscles stiff, lungs screaming for air.

Then, a sound breaks the silence, a distant roar of a train. Louder than it should be.

The train slows into the station. Massive, green and gold, steel and wood, polished yet worn. Its thick glass windows reflect the station lights. The door opens slowly. Smoke rises from beneath the train as the door swings wide, curling into the air. Then a bright light pours from inside, cutting a golden path across the platform. Sami steps forward.

He walks toward it, drenched, each step hesitant. Inside, the metro is extraordinary, wooden seats with brown and white edges, long carpets along the floor, walls carved with intricate designs, some scratched and damaged as if by unseen hands. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, swaying slightly, some bulbs missing, casting fractured light across the interior. Figures sit far apart, silent, unmoving, shadows stretching over them.

A cold breeze brushes Sami’s back. As he turns, his hip catches the edge of a chair. His phone slips from his pocket, landing face-up near the door, screen cracked. He bends to pick it up, clutching it just before the door closes fully behind him.

Sami sits down, exhausted. He wipes the rain from his face and looks at his phone, the cracked screen glowing faintly. The same photo from the car, his family, and above it, the time: 19:52.

He stares. His lips twitch into a weak reflection of their smiles, but it falters. His throat tightens.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I tried… I’m sorry.”

He presses the phone to his chest, eyes closed, rocking slightly, as though it might answer back. For a moment, he lets himself sink into their faces, into what’s gone.

When he looks again, his eyes drop to the numbers. 19:52. Still there. The same. He blinks, waiting, but the time stays still, taps once, twice. Nothing. Swipes. Nothing. He shakes the phone, wipes it against his soaked sleeve, presses buttons harder and harder. Still nothing.

The photo glows back at him, fixed in eternal stillness. Their smiles won’t change. The time won’t change. The whole phone is frozen.

The sound of the metro in the tunnel grows louder, as if the train is picking up speed. The chandelier above trembles with the motion, its glass pieces clinking, scattering light in broken patterns that dance across the floor. But in his hands, time has stopped.

Turning back, Sami notices shadows at the far end of the car, figures of people, still and silent. None move, none speak. The shadows dance again across the floor as the train pushes faster.

The windows reflect only the inside of the carriage, no tunnel walls, no light of an approaching station. Sami presses his face close to the glass, searching for any sign of the outside world. Nothing. Only a sea of darkness swallowing the metro whole.

He pulls back slowly, checks his phone, and starts counting seconds. But the numbers don’t change. Time refuses to move. He lifts his head again, outside, still only darkness.

Sami peels off his soaked shirt, runs it through his hair, wipes what he can from his face. The undershirt clings to him, also wet, but he doesn’t care. He lays the shirt across the seat, slips his phone into his pocket, and looks again at the still figures. Then he starts walking toward them.

The chandelier sways harder with each step, throwing shadows left and right. The noise of the train builds, mixed with the ringing of the glass.

He keeps walking until, at last, he sees clearly a man, sitting alone on a metro bench.

His tuxedo is pressed but old, narrow in the shoulders, the lapels long, the cut out of fashion. A stiff white shirt with a tight black bow tie. His leather shoes shine, though the edges are scuffed. His hair is combed back with care, parted clean, glossy with oil. His face is pale, cheekbones sharp, lines deep around the mouth. The years show, but the style holds, as if he has stepped out of a photograph.

Sami slows down, hesitating to approach. The man does not move. His hands rest on his knees, fingers curled slightly inward. His eyes stare at the floor, blank, drained of light.

Sami takes the seat across from him. As he sits, the metro seems to ease, the chandelier steadies. He glances to the window but finds only his own reflection. He turns back quickly, unsettled, then rises again and lowers himself beside the man.

The stranger gives no sign of noticing him. On the bench next to him lies a folded newspaper. Sami leans in, scanning the headlines. The words strike him like relics: Stock Values Drop Five Billion in Wall Street’s Greatest Crash. Black Tuesday, 1929.

He calls out, his voice low.
“Hi, sir.”

The man does not move. Still staring at the floor, empty, silent. Sami lays a hand gently on his shoulder.
“Sir… sorry to bother you…”

The train jolts forward, speeding up again. The chandelier shakes violently, light scattering in chaos. Then finally, the man lifts his head. His eyes meet Sami’s, empty but fixed, and when he speaks his voice is low, almost swallowed by the noise.

“Hello.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but… I need help. Something is...”

“Don’t we all?” the man cuts in, his voice dry.

“No, I mean the metro, sir. Something is wrong. It’s been going for too long, speeding up, never slowing down.”

“Don’t worry, my son. The train has just left the station. It will stop soon.”

“That’s impossible. It left at least fifteen minutes ago. Stations are five minutes apart, at most.”

“Don’t worry, my son. The train has just left the station. It will stop soon.”

“I’m telling you...”

“Don’t worry, my son. The train has just left the station. It will stop soon.”

“Sir, please. Listen. It left fifteen minutes ago!”

“That can’t be. I just came aboard, a few seconds ago.”

“What? A few seconds?”

“Yes. From Wall Street Station.”

Sami stares. His skull feels hot, his leg trembles.
“Wall Street? No. I was the last to enter, fifteen minutes ago, at Marquês de Pombal Station.”

For the first time, the man’s eyes flicker with life.
“There is no station with that name, son. I left my office, boarded the first train. Just moments ago.”

Sami’s chest tightens. He glances at the paper again.
“Where did you find that? This old newspaper?”

“Old? That’s today’s paper. You’ll find it on every corner in New York.”

“New York? Sir, we’re in Lisbon.”

The man frowns, almost amused. “Lisbon? Is that a neighborhood in New York?”

“Lisbon, Portugal.”

The man’s face hardens, as if Sami has spoken nonsense. His eyes dim again, lifeless.
“Son, I have enough troubles already. I don’t need more madness today.”

Sami feels him closing off, irritation rising.
“My apologies, sir. I’ll leave you alone.”

He stands, takes a step away, the shadows trembling around him with the sway of the chandelier. He walks toward the next figure in sight.

Sami steps away, then stops, turning back again. He studies the man, trying to understand, trying to make sense. the man in the tuxedo lowers his head again, staring at the floor with that same empty, dead look. Sami glances back once more, checking his phone. The screen still shows 19:52. Time hasn’t moved.

Outside, the windows are still nothing but black. Ahead of him, a woman appears beautiful, mid-thirties, dressed all in white. A nurse’s uniform, maybe, with a long coat thrown over it. Dark stains smear her blouse. Blood. She rubs at the fabric, desperate to clean it, but it only spreads.

As Sami gets closer, he hears it, a soft, broken sobbing. The sound grows clearer with every step.

He slows, then calls out gently.
“Hi, miss… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she whispers, her voice cracked and fragile. “Nothing, thank you.” She doesn’t look at him.

“Please, miss. I can help you.”

“You can’t. No one can. Nothing can help. Nothing!” Her voice breaks and she bursts into tears.

Sami lowers himself onto the seat beside her, careful, gentle. He takes a tissue from his pocket and offers it. She accepts it with shaking hands and hides her face in it, crying hard.

“I killed them,” she gasps between sobs. “I killed them…”

“You killed who, miss? What happened?” Sami leans closer, urging her to go on.

“I didn’t mean to. I was afraid. They said they would kill me.”

“Who? Who said that?”

She lifts her face, eyes red and wet, wiping them with the back of her hand. Her voice trembles as she speaks.
“I’m a nurse. At the St. Stanisław Hospital. A gypsy family came, running from the Nazi army. My friend let them in, tried to hide them. But someone told. The soldiers came. They shot my friend in front of me.” Her breath catches. “Then they gave me a gun. They said if you want to live, shoot them all. If you want them to live, shoot yourself.”

Her voice cracks completely, and the words tumble out “So I shot them. I shot the family. This is their blood… on my clothes…”

Sami stares at her, horrified.
“But… wait. The Nazis? What are Nazis doing in Portugal?? in 2018?”

The woman looks up at him, confused.
“What?”

“Ma’am… what day is today?”

She wipes her eyes, blinking at him.
“It’s December 16th, 1942. Why do you ask?”

Sami’s body stiffens.
“1942?… 1942? 1929?”

She studies his face, her brows pinched. “Are you alright?”

He stumbles backward, pushing himself away from her. His voice shakes.
“1942? 1929? What’s happening…?”

The woman bursts back into tears, clutching at her blouse, trying in vain to scrub the stains of blood away.

Sami runs as fast as he can toward the next figure further down. The metro jolts, speeding faster, and he trips. His body slams to the floor. Pain shoots through his leg. Blood begins to spill from just above his knee, warm and quick.

He groans, sits up, presses a hand to the wound. The blood runs faster between his fingers.

Across the aisle, a young woman sits on the floor by the door. White shirt, jeans. Early twenties. She looks Arabic, beautiful, but exhausted. Her eyes are fixed forward, straight at Sami’s direction, but she doesn’t see him.

“Hello! Miss!” Sami shouts, his voice echoing in the carriage.

Nothing.

He pulls himself up, limping closer. “Hello, miss…” Still no answer.

He tries again. Once. Twice. A dozen times. She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. She’s breathing, but barely. More like a body on the edge of life than someone awake.

Sami’s chest tightens. He looks past her. Further down, more shapes. A group of people. Ten, maybe more. Each sitting alone. All facing some unseen direction.

None of them alive. Not really.

Different clothes. Different eras. A teenager in Manchester united 1958 jersy. A woman in a victorian wedding dress. An old man with a hat. Their eyes empty, glassy. Only the sound of the metro rushing beneath them, and their faint breathing, inhale, exhale.

Sami stumbles forward, muttering under his breath.
“1942… 1929…” His voice rises. “Hello? Hellooo?”

No answer.

“Hello, everyone! Do you hear me?”

His heart slams against his ribs. His head burns. Sweat runs down his back. His breath grows faster, sharper, harder to control.

“Hellooooo!” he screams, but not a single head turns.

He grabs the old man from both shoulders, shaking him, yelling in his ear. The body doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Alive, but also dead.

“What’s happening? Hello! Please, somebody!” Sami’s voice breaks. He stumbles from one figure to the next, shaking, pushing, begging. His blood leaves drops with every step, staining the floor.

The metro rattles, faster still. The chandeliers swing wildly, their shadows dancing across the faces of the lifeless passengers. Sami stands in the middle of them, tears running, head twisting as if it will split apart. Nothing makes sense.

He runs back, all the way to the driver’s door. He pounds on it, his fists raw.
“Hello? Sir! Hellooooo!”

Silence.

He presses his face to the glass. Nothing outside. No light. Just void.

Desperate, he limps back toward the first man he spoke to. “Sir! Sorry, sorry to bother you again, but I need help, real help now”

The lights flicker. Bright. Then dark. Then back again.

The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at him. His eyes are gone, as empty as all the others.

Sami’s stomach drops.

Even the nurse, the one who spoke to him before, now sits with her head down, still as stone. The blood on her blouse drying into her uniform. Her eyes blank.

Just another body among the dead-alive.

Sami drags himself up, rage burning through the pain. He kicks at the driver’s door, again and again, the metro rushing faster beneath him. He checks the window, slams his shoulder against it. Once. Twice. Nothing. Only his own body breaking. His shoulder throbs, bruised deep.

He clutches it, cries out, blood still pouring from his knee. Tears blind him. Still, he stands, screams into the hollow air.
“Stop the metrooo! Stop it nowww!”

With both fists he hammers the door. Left, right, left, right. His bones ache, skin tearing open, blood smearing across the steel. He runs back, hurls himself forward, both legs slamming against the frame. The door shudders but stays shut.

He punches harder, faster, until both fists bleed freely, streaking red with every strike. His scream rips through the carriage. He beats at the window, at the walls, at the silence around him.
“I want to liiiiive agaaaaaain! Please! Let me liiiiive again!”

He collapses to the floor, smashes his fists against it, tears dripping into the blood pooling there. Behind him, one by one, the chandeliers flicker and die. Darkness crawls through the carriage.

Sami keeps punching, weaker now, his voice breaking.
“Let me liiiive, pleaaaase…”

His throat shreds itself. No sound comes out, only a dry, voiceless cry. He falls onto both knees, blood running down to the floor from his fists, mixing with the stream from his torn legs.

He lifts his face to the ceiling and screams without voice, a silent howl so raw it feels like his soul is tearing out of him.
“Aaaaaaaaah! I want to liiiiive again! Pleaaaase!”

Over and over, broken, torn, until he collapses, forehead pressed to the floor, sobbing, trembling, his body nothing but pain.

A drop of water hits his neck. Then another.

He clenches his fists, slams them one last time into the ground, screaming so loud it carries no sound at all, only emptiness.

The metro slams to a sudden stop, throwing him forward into the driver’s door. His body crashes down.

He opens his eyes, still screaming, voice raw:
“I want to live again!”

Around him, every passenger on the train suddenly lifts their heads. Their mouths open wide. Together, they scream, one endless, broken harmony that shakes the carriage.

The door hisses. Opens.

Sami runs. Bones broken, body drenched in blood. He runs, screaming into the dark.
“I live again! I live again! I can be happy again!”

Tears flood his eyes, his voice torn, his whole body shattering but he runs, running upstairs, every step breaking, every bone screaming, but he keeps going, his chest tearing open, breath cutting like knives, heart about to burst, tears flooding his eyes, the light ahead burning brighter with every step, too bright, too bright
“I live again, i live again, i can be happy“
His voice cracks, his body failing, still he runs into the light...

The light becomes hands pulling him gently from his mother’s body. The doctor’s voice breaks through the haze, clear and real “Congratulations, your healthy little boy is born!”

The mother sinks back, exhausted, tears streaming down her face, the father takes him, trembling, holding him close, he leans in, whispers into the tiny ear the words of the adhan

“Allāhu Akbar, Allāhu Akbar
Allāhu Akbar, Allāhu Akbar
Ashhadu an lā ilāha illā Allāh
Ashhadu an lā ilāha illā Allāh
Ashhadu anna Muḥammadan Rasūl Allāh
Ashhadu anna Muḥammadan Rasūl Allāh
Ḥayya ‘alaṣ-ṣalāh, Ḥayya ‘alaṣ-ṣalāh
Ḥayya ‘alal-falāḥ, Ḥayya ‘alal-falāḥ
Allāhu Akbar, Allāhu Akbar
Lā ilāha illā Allāh”......