The laminated schedule rested against the bench, its corner frayed where someone had gripped it too hard. Mid-afternoon light caught the dust motes dancing above the spilled coffee sheen, illuminating the faint, oily smudge near the bottom right. A finger traced the printed lines, following the sequence of stops until it reached the anchor corner. The person paused, their fingertip hovering over a segment that curved sharply back on itself, a path that didn't exist on the actual platform map. With a soft, rhythmic tap, a nearby foot marked the beat, forcing the gaze back to the paper. The printed route always seemed to curve backward, a perfect, useless reversal of the direction the trains actually ran.
hush · tender