The station wasn’t supposed to be there. I’d been exploring the second basement of the building I’d just bought on Wardour Street—a crumbling relic with rubbish piled in every corner—when I found the door. It was steel, unmarked, and slightly ajar. The air beyond it was cool, metallic, and carried the faint, unsettling scent of…

When a London pub closes its doors for the last time, it soon disappears. Or does it?

The girl was young, alone and visibly sad, but above all, the girl was out of place. Lost?