The commute

Jerry dashed headlong down the steps, across the platform. He might have fallen onto the tracks, were it not for the train. He might have rushed onto the train, were it not for the doors.

Then he was alone on the platform. At the height of rush hour. A small knot of fear began to form in the pit of his stomach. The platform was not simply empty, it was spectacularly so: there was no movement, no sound, no odor. The hair on his neck bristled.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back from the edge of a suddenly crowded platform. Jerry blinked. An express train roared past. The crush of morning commuters drove away his odd, momentary reverie.

Jerry turned to thank his savior. The man was tall and thin, immaculately dressed in a bespoke suit. He smiled like morning sunshine. He was awesomely handsome.

The knot returned and crumpled tightly. In his peripheral vision, Jerry could see that between the bustling commuters he was still totally alone.

“Careful, Jerry,” it said, in deep, rich tones.

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