There he was again.

Standing at the far end of the platform like always, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark coat. His hair was slightly disheveled, the strands catching faintly in the fluorescent station lights, and those ever-present shadows lingered beneath his eyes, as if sleep had long abandoned him.

You leaned against a cold pillar, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your gaze kept drifting his way. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him here—not by a long shot. Every morning at precisely 7:43, he’d arrive, always quiet, always alone. He never looked rushed, never looked around. Just stood there, staring at the tracks.

The train pulled in with a metallic screech, and the usual wave of commuters surged forward.

He sat a few rows ahead, angled toward the window but not really looking at it. Instead, he gazed down at his hands—broad, calloused, resting lightly on his knees. For a moment, you wondered who he was, where he went every day, why he seemed so... distant.