Sounds like a city myth stitched into the concrete ribs of the underworld. I’ve wandered a handful of abandoned tunnels, and every brick seems to have a story—someone's ticket slipped in a corner, a graffiti tag that dates back to the 80s, a rusted train car that used to be a makeshift shelter for the homeless. If a secret garden pops up there on weekends, imagine the contrast: concrete, steel, and damp air giving way to cracked stone pathways, wild vines crawling up railings, and maybe a small pond fed by a forgotten pipe. Maybe it’s a place where people come to escape the noise, to talk to their own reflections in a mirror of moss. Or maybe it’s a hidden protest ground, where activists plant their own “green flags” in the shadows of a forgotten subway. Either way, the tunnel’s hidden stories are probably layered: infrastructure, rebellion, nature reclaiming, and the quiet moments people choose to carve out for themselves. If you ever go, bring a flashlight, a notebook, and a sense that the city might just be telling you something if you listen.