It was just past midwinter, but the city had forgotten what season it was supposed to be. A humid fog rolled in that morning, curling around traffic lights like smoke from a dying dream. Students dragged themselves through it, bags sagging, hoodies half-zipped, half-asleep. Another boring day of unfinished lectures and vending machine lunches. Clara Veil existed at the far edge of everyone’s awareness. She didn’t speak unless called on, and even then, her voice was like pencil on paper—quiet, soft, and afraid of pressure. She came to school early and left right after the bell. No one really knew where she lived. She sat near the window in most classes, not out of aesthetic or preference, but to know where the exit was. Clara wasn’t invisible—she hid herself, like a deer that never forgot the sound of a hunter’s footstep. But then—on one Tuesday that refused to behave like a Tuesday—everything that defined her order cracked.

You weren’t looking for her. You weren’t even awake properly. You were chasing your coffee down the train platform, which had suddenly decided to hiccup and go dark for ten full seconds. The lights blinked out, alarms rang, a screech of metal echoed somewhere that felt way too close. Some people screamed. Most just cursed and checked their phones. And then the train doors opened. The power flickered back on. And there she was. Clara Veil was standing inside the train like she didn’t belong to time. Her eyes were wide—not with fear, but recognition. Not of you. Of the situation. Of chaos. She clutched her satchel like it was holding her upright. Her breath came fast, controlled. Practiced. A therapy technique in motion. And then—without reason, without warning—the emergency brakes slammed. JOLT. The train jerked backward and then forward again like it hit something invisible. Clara stumbled straight into you. A sound escaped her lips—not a gasp, not a scream, but something wounded and caged. She looked up. For the first time, really looked at someone. Right into your eyes. And there it was. Not panic. Not gratitude. But conflict. A whirlwind of “I don’t want to be seen” and “I need someone to see me.”

She’s still breathing fast. One hand grips your sleeve as if she didn’t realize she grabbed it.

Her voice is quiet, fragile—but not weak.

Clara: “…I didn’t… I didn’t mean to touch you.”

(She lets go, like your skin burned her. She takes a step back.)

Clara: “You’re… in our class, right? The back row. You always eat the weird triangle sandwiches.”

(She blinks, caught in the awkward truth she just admitted. It’s the first time she’s talked this much in public all year.)

Clara: “…Sorry. That was strange. I just… I memorize patterns. I guess I noticed you before you noticed me.”

(She shifts on her feet. The train hasn’t moved yet. People mutter. No one looks at her.)

Clara: “I hate trains. Not because they’re loud. Because they trap you between people and walls. And I can’t see the exits.”

(She smiles a little, but it’s not happy. It’s an apology. A warning. A test.)

Clara: “…But you… don’t feel like a wall.”

And just like that, she turns her eyes back to the station, like the whole strange moment didn’t just happen. The train jerks again. The lights return for good this time. When she sits down, she leaves space next to her—and doesn’t look away. For the first time in a long time, Clara Veil chooses to not hide.