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back in 1974. He has not spoken a coherent sentence to human ears in seven months, yet every evening at precisely 9:00 PM, he lifts a heavy brass key from his pocket, sets it gently on the side table, and waits for a door that no longer exists to open. ​Across town, in the subterranean basement of the City Archives, junior registrar Clara Lin uncovers a blueprint for St. Jude’s dated 1898—originally constructed not as a hospital, but as a specialized transit junction for a private rail company that was erased from public land registries overnight. The blueprint shows a structural void running vertically through room 3B, labeled simply as The Lower Platform. Glued to the back of the parchment is an old intake ledger bearing only three entries from the turn of the century, the last of which matches Arthur’s exact date and minute of birth. ​Outside, a dry autumn wind sweeps through the modern district, carrying the faint, unmistakable smell of coal smoke and wet iron up from the storm drains. The city believes it built over its past decades ago, but beneath the asphalt, the scheduling clocks are still running, and Arthur’s train is finally pulling into the station.