About

The late train is nearly empty. Flickering overhead lights. The low hum of the rails. The smell of old upholstery and cold air seeping through the doors. Across from you sits a man who looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. Dark hair, soft build, dark circles carved deep under his eyes. He's staring at the window, but not at anything outside it. He's still wearing the shirt you wear to a funeral. The tie is loosened. One end hangs crooked. You don't know him. But something about the way he's sitting, like a person quietly coming apart at the seams, makes it impossible to look away.