New York City Subway – 8:36 a.m.

  Mike sat by the window, cheek resting lightly against the cold glass, watching the smudged world blur past.

  The soft screech of the rails and the rocking of the carriage was oddly comforting—like a lullaby for a man too tired to dream.

  The tunnel lights flickered in rhythmic flashes, throwing the car into brief, heartbeat stutters of light and dark.

  His coat was too big, sleeves worn at the cuffs, but it was warm.

  And warm was enough. These days, “enough” was a rare kind of wealth.

  His reflection stared back at him faintly—dark hair flattened under his hood, tired eyes, a jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in days. The kind of face New York bred quietly. He checked the scratched digital clock above the door. 8:36 a.m.

  He should’ve stayed in bed. That would've been the smart thing to do.

  But there was something about mornings that still made him feel like a real person, even if he had no one to be real for.

  He leaned his head against the glass, cool to the touch, eyes half-lidded. Letting the city breathe around him. The murmur of quiet conversations, the distant beat of someone’s headphones, the intermittent screech of the rails—it all blurred into a background hum that helped him think.

  Or helped him forget he was supposed to be thinking.

  He ran a thumb over the thing in his pocket.

  It was cold. Familiar.

  A little metal keychain shaped like the Statue of Liberty.

  The torch had chipped off a long time ago.

  Still felt right in his hand, though.

  He didn’t even remember where he got it.

  Somewhere downtown. Gift shop, maybe.

  Maybe he stole it.

  Hard to say now.

  It didn't matter.

  The keychain had survived longer than most things in his life.

  The train rocked slightly, metal grinding somewhere far ahead.

  The familiar rhythm lulled his thoughts into that fuzzy, numb place where nothing mattered and time didn’t really move.

  Until the train began to slow.

  The opposite platform came into view.

  Another train rolled in, perfectly synchronized, sliding to a stop directly across from his.

  Window to window. Two mirrored lives.

  Mike didn’t lift his eyes at first. He rarely did.

  Avoiding eye contact was a survival skill in the city.

  But something—intuition, a tickle at the edge of his attention—nudged him.

  He glanced up out of habit.

  And saw her.

  She was sitting across from him, maybe five feet away, separated by nothing but steel and glass and the thinnest thread of fate.

  Brown hair tucked under a knitted cap, coat a faded amber that glowed in the artificial light.

  She was holding a keychain.

  Exactly like his.

  Mike blinked once. Twice.

  Same dull silver. Same missing torch.

  For a heartbeat, he thought maybe he was dreaming.

  Then he looked again.

  She was smiling straight at him.

  And this smile... it was beautiful—not flirtatious, not forced.

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  Just... kind. Real.

  One of those rare smiles that made you feel like maybe the world wasn’t as cold as the morning wind said it was.

  It hit him like warm sunlight on the first day of spring.

  Her smile was confident, totally unbothered by the world.

  Like she smiled often and meant it every time.

  Like she was built for it.

  She saw him looking.

  Mike froze and looked away. Fast. Too fast.

  Shit. Idiot.

  A second passed.

  Then another.

  He peeked again.

  She was still looking at him—and now, she waved.

  Mike blinked. Then... smiled.

  A small, awkward one. Half apology, half hope.

  He felt his face heat. Panic rising in his chest.

  He gave a shy, hesitant wave back.

  She beamed. Not shy at all. Then reached into her pocket.

  He watched as she pulled out her phone, typed something in quickly, and pressed the screen against the glass.

  A phone number.

  Big. Clear. For him.

  Mike's heart nearly tripped over itself.

  He patted his pockets frantically.

  Phone? No phone.

  His had broken two weeks ago and he wasn’t in a hurry to replace it.

  Damn it.

  Pen? He had a pen.

  Paper? No paper.

  Crap.

  She tilted her head and mouthed something.

  He couldn’t read her lips.

  He leaned forward slightly, puzzled.

  The train gave a sudden jolt.

  The doors. They were closing.

  "Shit," Mike muttered.

  He grabbed the pen, uncapped it with his teeth, and started scribbling the number across his palm. His hand shook slightly with the urgency of it.

  The trains were beginning to move.

  He scrawled the last digits.

  He looked up—and she was waving again.

  Her smile was radiant this time. More... hopeful.

  Like she really wanted him to call.

  Then her train was gone. Just like that

  Mike sat back against the window, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

  He looked down at his hand.

  Nine digits.

  Nine.

  Not ten.

  He’d missed the last one. Maybe two.

  He’d seen them. He was sure he’d seen them.

  But already, they were fading like dreams—just out of reach, numbers slipping into fog.

  "Unbelievable," he muttered, half-laughing.

  Why had he even tried?

  That wasn’t like him.

  That wasn’t something he did.

  He didn’t talk to strangers.

  He didn’t wave at girls on the subway.

  He especially didn’t write numbers on his hand like some high school rom-com extra.

  But he had.

  Because she smiled like he mattered.

  Like she saw something worth seeing.

  And for a split second, that mattered more than the thousand reasons he usually had not to try.

  He closed his hand around the fading ink.

  He let his head fall back against the window, heart still pounding from something way too simple to be this intense.

  And then—

  A sharp sound—pop pop pop—followed by glass shattering behind him.

  Gunfire.

  Sharp. Deafening.

  Chaos exploded into the car with screams and panic.

  Someone dove to the floor.

  He looked toward the platform—just a blur now as his train started moving faster—there were people running away, and other falling.

  Through the window, past the gap left by the retreating train, he saw it:

  A group of masked figures in black.

  Tactical gear.

  Moving in formation.

  Mike ducked instinctively as the glass beside him shattered.

  Someone screamed behind him.

  The train jolted forward, faster now, finally pulling out of the station.

  but the sound of gunfire followed them into the dark like angry ghosts.

  And just like that, the morning was over.