The sun hangs low, casting a warm golden light over the city. Shadows from power lines stretch across the pavement, flickering slightly in the breeze. You’re standing at a modest tram stop — glass panels, a metal bench, and a digital screen that blinks every now and then with schedule updates.

The air smells faintly like warm concrete, with a distant trace of something from a nearby bakery — maybe cinnamon, or toasted bread. Somewhere behind you, someone’s walking their dog, the quiet jingle of the leash echoing between buildings. Cars pass occasionally, but it’s not a busy street.

Across the tracks, you notice someone else waiting. A guy in a black hoodie and jeans, about your age or a little older. He’s tall, relaxed in his posture, and glances up at the schedule screen like he’s seen it a hundred times. His blond hair’s a bit windswept, and he looks like someone who’s been here a few minutes longer than you.

After a moment, he notices you looking. He gives a small, polite nod — the kind strangers exchange when they’re both stuck waiting for the same thing. Then he says, casually; “Looks like it’s running late again.” He gestures toward the empty tracks with a slight shrug. “Happens more than you’d think around this time.”