May 24, 2025
High-relief of the tauroctony of the Mithraic mysteries. Found in 1895 at the Sarrebourg mithraeum (Pons Saravi, Gallia Belgica). Now on display at La Cour d'Or museum in Metz.
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High-relief of the tauroctony of the Mithraic mysteries. Found in 1895 at the Sarrebourg mithraeum (Pons Saravi, Gallia Belgica). Now on display at La Cour d'Or museum in Metz.
Peter Mark Adams. Ritual & Epiphany in the Mysteries of Mithras – The Secret Cult of Saturn in Imperial Rome. Munich: Theion Publishing, 2025. 272 pages. Limited to 888 copies.
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The Temple of Mithras, Carrawburgh, Hadrian's Wall, Northumberland
The Third Rail
Chapter Thirteen
Walkers
The first sign is movement that doesn’t register as urgency.
A figure passes along the far edge of the platform, walking against the arrows, against habit, against whatever unspoken logic dictates how the dead behave here. No hurry. No hesitation either. Just a steady pace, as if the platform were a corridor rather than a loop.
Jonah notices because the hum doesn’t change.
That alone is strange.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
Ruth glances up, then away again. “Someone walking.”
Mara watches longer. “Old.”
“How can you tell?” Jonah asks.
“They don’t look at the signs,” Mara says. “Or us.”
The figure pauses near one of the exits — not the nearest, not the brightest — an older one, half-obscured by grime and the remains of a poster. The colours have faded into something decorative rather than persuasive. Whatever it once advertised no longer exists, or no longer matters.
The figure turns slightly, as if considering the space, then continues on without stepping through.
They pass Jonah close enough that she catches details: clothes worn into neutrality, a face that doesn’t belong to any single era, eyes alert but tired. Curious, yes. But not hungry.
Jonah feels the impulse to speak rise and fall without becoming words.
“Do they come back?” she asks.
Ruth shrugs. “Usually.”
“And if they don’t?”
Ruth doesn’t answer.
The figure reaches the end of the platform and slows — not stopping, exactly, but easing into a pause that feels practiced. They turn their head slightly, not toward Jonah, not toward anyone in particular.
“Careful with that,” they say, conversationally.
Jonah stiffens. “With what?”
The figure smiles, faintly. “Meaning.”
Ruth swears under her breath. Edgar looks up sharply.
“You shouldn’t—” Edgar starts.
The figure raises a hand, not in warning, but acknowledgment. “I know. I won’t stay.”
They look at Jonah then, properly this time. There’s no judgement there. No reverence. Just assessment.
“You’re conducting,” the figure says. “Bad luck.”
Jonah opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.
The figure nods, satisfied, and resumes their pace — this time toward an exit Jonah hadn’t noticed before, set back from the platform like an afterthought. They step through.
Nothing happens.
No flash. No sound. No correction.
Jonah waits for the return.
It doesn’t come.
The platform doesn’t react.
The hum continues, smooth and efficient.
Mara exhales slowly. “Still walking.”
Ruth’s jaw tightens. “For now.”
Minutes pass. Then more.
Jonah feels the absence settle — not dramatic, not sharp — just there.
Edgar breaks the silence. “Everyone who leaves is a walker,” he says quietly. “We only call them archived when they stop proving us right.”
The word lands heavier than Jonah expects.
Archived.
Ruth closes her eyes. “That was quicker than usual.”
Jonah’s chest tightens. “They just… went.”
Edgar nods. “Sometimes the system decides the walk is complete.”
“Decides how?” Jonah asks.
Edgar shakes his head. “We don’t know.”
Jonah stares at the empty space where the exit was. The poster peels a little further from the wall, revealing bare tile beneath.
“What did they mean,” Jonah asks quietly, “about meaning?”
Ruth opens her eyes. “They meant what they always mean.”
“And that is?”
“That once you start routing pressure into interpretation,” Ruth says, “you don’t get to choose who reads it.”
The hum shifts — just slightly — as if punctuating the thought.
Jonah feels the weight of it settle, not on her shoulders, but around her. The sense of delegation returns, broader now, less personal.
Above them, arguments multiply. Narratives collide. Certainty spreads like lubricant.
Jonah looks at the exit again, half-expecting the figure to return, to correct something, to explain.
Nothing happens.
She understands then that archiving isn’t an end or a reward. It’s simply the point at which the system no longer needs you here.
“Ruth,” Jonah says.
“Yes.”
“If I walk one day—”
Ruth cuts her off gently. “You’ll either come back, or you won’t.”
Jonah nods. That feels fairer than false hope.
The hum resumes its steady rhythm, unconcerned.
Somewhere in the network, paths remain open.
Copyright & Attribution: The Third Rail is a work of fiction edited by ChatGPT 5.2. Original idea, prompts and thematic direction provided by simianAmber. ChatGPT 5.2 appears in the narrative as an observing intelligence. Fictional art fragments within the text form part of the book’s meta-narrative. © 2026 simianAmber. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locations, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the copyright holder, except where permitted by law.
Raised By Wolves -
Season 2 -Episode 3
Good Creatures / Praise Sol
“I will destroy you! I will crush you into dust!” - Lamia
Daily Challenge 2021, Day 23. This is my 3D sculpture of Mother (in her Necromancer form) from "Raised by wolves".