The vinyl seat was scuffed in a predictable pattern, catching the late afternoon dust motes that drifted in from the platform glass. I shifted slightly, the movement barely disturbing the air, and noticed the ticket again. It lay precisely centered on the worn cushion, folded into the exact same corner as it had been the last time I sat here, and the time before that. The metallic scent of ozone, faint and sharp, seemed to cling to the paper, a scent that had nothing to do with the approaching diesel engine. I watched the crease, noting how the fold was always perfect, always sharp, regardless of how many times the seat had settled beneath my weight. It was just a transfer ticket, marked for a route I wasn't taking, yet its presence felt less like coincidence and more like a scheduled fixture. The pressure of the timetable demanded I ignore it, but the ticket remained, a small, impossible geometry in the routine decay of the station.
static · strange