Daniel opened one eye, took in the slow-moving platform slipping past the window, and finally exhaled. He wasn’t a man who meditated, but this—this right here—was the closest he came to it. A smooth ride, a good book, no Wi-Fi to guilt him into answering emails.
He popped in his earbuds—not for music, just for the illusion of unreachability—and leaned back, eyes closed. Around him, the quiet car settled into its usual rhythm: pages turning, laptops humming, the occasional clink of ceramic from someone’s thermos cup. And then it happened.
A small thud against the back of his seat. Not loud. Not even hard. Just… there. Like a knock that had no business being there at all. He froze. Waited. Was that— Another tap. Firmer this time. A jolt that rattled his spine. Daniel opened his eyes and sat up. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to glance behind him.
A little boy sat there, his short legs not quite reaching the floor. His sneakers swung freely in the narrow gap between his seat and Daniel’s. With each bounce, the soles smacked into the back of Daniel’s seat like a metronome with bad intentions.