I tumbled through a – well – I didn't know what it was. I'd have said a waterfall, but I was dry. Rather, the barrier was a cascade of air which formed a wall between the waking world and The Beyond.

Gracelessly, I rolled across a gleaming floor. When Leon had pulled me out of my body, the world around me had felt wrong. Distant. There'd been an invisible sheen between me and it. Clearly, we'd no longer been connected in any kind of tangible way. Here, that wall had vanished. I was fully connected with the large grey and tan tiles. A fact which might have filled me with some sense of relief and joy had I not fallen onto them. I could already feel bruises blossoming across my arms.

I pushed myself into a sitting position and turned my head and found myself flanked by rows of terracotta brick arches supported by stone pillars. The cascading portal towered over me, framed by an arch doorway. There were doors, wooden with steel reinforcements, but they didn't close behind us. Leon had stepped through without issue and didn't seem at all concerned about the dog that'd chased us. The Reaper's scythe shrank, and the blade folded into the shaft. Leon holstered it on his belt and marched toward me. Without breaking stride, he stooped to grasp my upper arm and hauled me onto my feet. I stumbled as I turned around and found myself dragged at his pace as I fought to take in my surroundings.

Sleek silver benches sat against a glass wall beneath a concave ceiling made of blue steel and glass. A white light shone through and illuminated everything below. It glanced from a few figures huddled on the benches and cast long shadows behind important-looking strangers in crisp black suits. A colossal statue towered over us, but there was no plaque affixed to the circular stone plinth. Even if there had been, Leon was marching far too quickly for me to take it in. Beyond the glass walls were platforms where modern trains waited patiently for their passengers.

Leon ignored the vehicles and took us to a glass elevator. We waited barely thirty seconds before the doors parted and I was brought inside. There were only two buttons: one for the platform level, and another for the ground. No one joined us on the short ride that, honestly, felt rather lazy. We could've easily taken the stairs. Once we'd stopped, the doors released us out into something like a mall. Sleek, modern storefronts lined the wide walkway. Although they were all illuminated, the doors were closed, and no one was inside. Their displays were stuffed with everything from snacks to luggage, yet the passers-by didn't even turn their heads to glance at what was on offer.

"Wait," I said, as Leon steered me onward. He didn't because he was a jackass. Not even when I tried to twist out of his grip. "I said to wait! Are you deaf?"

"I heard you. I just don't care."

My bare feet squeaked against the tile as I dug in my heels. More benches sat in the middle of the walkway, but only a couple were occupied. The figures in the seats were hunched over and muttered to themselves incoherently. Nobody looked up as we passed by, as though they were completely oblivious to our presence. Beneath the steel and glass staircase sat an unoccupied piano. It was old and scuffed and made of dark wood. It looked out of place in the otherwise sleek, modern space, but I had the nagging feeling that I'd seen it before. Signs hung from the ceiling offering directions, but the language wasn't one I recognised. In fact, I couldn't even be sure that it was real. It felt like one of those dreams when everything seems off somehow.

"Is this St. Pancras station?"

The realisation hit me like the trains waiting on the upper platform. I'd visited a few times when I'd needed to change trains in London. The moment the question spilt from my lips; the garbled signage shifted into words I recognised. They directed passengers to the toilets, ticket booths, platforms, and cafes. Electronic billboards came to life and cycled through advertisements for products I'd seen on television. Just like the stores, they went ignored by everyone but me. It was like I was the only person who could see them.

"Could be. Never been." Leon waved a dismissive hand. "The Architect changes all this out whenever the mood takes them. They like to take inspiration from stations on Earth."

Leon was right to call it inspiration because, the more I looked, the more I could see that it wasn't an accurate reflection of the London station. The arrival and departure boards were broken. The yellow numbers flickered and scrolled endlessly, never settling on any worthwhile information. The self-service ticket machines were missing, and a long line of passengers had formed before a row of antiquated glass and brick booths with golden speaker grills set into them.

As we marched towards the line, I expected a long wait. It didn't scare me. In fact, quite the opposite. Not only did my British heritage make me immune to the stresses of standing in queues, but I was also perfectly comfortable lingering in the spacious, familiar train station. It seemed a far sight better than the unknown beyond that point.

While I might have prepared to stand around for hours on end, Leon wasn't.

Without a word of apology to the other travellers, Leon elbowed his way through them. I couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with the affronted strangers. All I could do was whisper apologies to any who protested or tutted under their breath. Despite all my attempts to bring the Reaper to a halt, he whisked me towards a vacant window.

The man behind the desk looked up when we arrived. A scowl immediately replaced his smile when he made eye contact with Leon. "What do you want?"

"I have a soul to send through."

"So I see." The ticket seller flicked his gaze to me before he returned it to Leon. "Just give her the travel papers and send her to the back of the line to await ticketing. I shouldn't have to tell you how to do your job."

"I can't do that."

The man let out a long, withering sigh. "Why, exactly?"

"She doesn't have papers. She's not on my list. I need you to search for her and process her manually."

"I can't do that here."

"Just type in her name on the computer, and–"

"I. Can't. Do. That. Here." The man emphasised each word like Leon was an idiot. "Take her to Jane. She can reprint the travel papers so they can be processed. When you have them, go to the back of the line. No cuts. No exceptions."

The Reaper's eyes narrowed in annoyance. I didn't see why he should be angry at a guy just doing his job. It wasn't like Leon had waited out the queue only to find out this information. We'd wasted no time at all. Still, he clearly wrestled with the temptation to say something waspish in reply. Deciding to be the bigger man, Leon jerked me away and towards the stairs.

"Why's it so busy?" We dodged out of the way of a procession of commuters headed down towards the ticket booths led by a young woman in a black suit. Another brought up the rear of the procession and gave Leon a sharp nod as she passed by. "And why is everyone buying tickets?"

"Nearly one and a half thousand people die every day in England. They all come here, and they all need a ticket to move on. That's why it's so busy."

"All of them are dead?"

"Obviously. Just like you."

It was only then that I paid attention to the surrounding people. I assumed the people in black were Reapers, like Leon. The others were a mix of male and female, young and old. Some seemed resigned to what was going on, even happy, but others were bewildered and frightened. A few were children who clung to the hands of people dressed in black. Others were carried in their arms and accompanied through the queues to pick up their tickets. Many travelled in groups behind people who held aloft circular signs with numbers painted onto them in black. They hurried stragglers, discouraged people from lingering, and reassured them they didn't have much further to go. I suddenly felt guilty for lamenting that I'd only made it to twenty-three when some people I passed couldn't be over four or five years old.

Nearby, a man sat on the floor. He shifted uncomfortably as he rested against the glass with his head tilted back. His skin was sunken to the bone, his eyes frighteningly empty and grey. Although hundreds of people were walking past him, they acted as if he was invisible. I stopped, captivated by my pity for him.

"Leave him," Leon urged. "There's no helping their sort."

"What sort?"

"The sort who can't let go and can't move on. The drifters. See?"

I wished I hadn't seen it. A breeze swept through the station, and he was the source. It came from inside of him, a soft exhale which lifted his skin from his bones like flakes of burning paper which crumbled upon being caught in the updraft of a roaring fire. He didn't cry out in pain, nor did he show the process hurt him, save a single tear which rolled from his vacant eye before it too became little more than dust which fell back down to settle on the pristine marble ground.

I made to approach the site of his demise, but Leon held me in place. "You can't do anything now. He's gone."

"Why didn't you help him?"

"As I said, there's no helping them. They know what happens if they stay put, but they do it anyway. And that's what'll happen to you if I don't get you a ticket."

Suddenly, staying in the station didn't seem like the better option.