The train jerks, passengers swaying in synchrony, caught in the unspoken dance of city life. A muffled announcement crackles over the speakers—something about delays, but no one listens. They’ve heard it before. The sighs, the exchanged glances, the resigned tapping of fingers against metal poles—it’s all routine.

A woman clutches her coffee like a lifeline; her lipstick imprint smudged on the rim. A student scribbles furiously in a notebook, the pen scratching against paper with desperate urgency. The air hums with quiet frustration, punctuated by the occasional shuffle as someone angles for a better position in the cramped space.

Outside, skyscrapers blur into one another, steel and glass melting into streaks of gray. The city pulses, indifferent to the struggles contained within its veins.

The doors slide open at the next stop. Bodies shift, an orchestrated chaos. A man squeezes past, muttering apologies he doesn’t mean. A teenager, earphones in, sidesteps a stroller with muscle memory alone. The cycle repeats. In, out, push, pull.

Another announcement—this time clearer. A disruption up ahead. Groans ripple through the carriage, heads shake, eyes roll. Someone mutters something about switching to the bus. Another contemplates walking, scanning the towering skyline for an escape route.

For a moment, the whole train exhales—a collective pause as the city grinds against their schedules. Then the doors snap shut, the engine hums, and just like that, they're pulled forward again. Swallowed whole.

The train rattles on, a metal serpent winding its way through the city’s veins. The air inside thickens—body heat, impatience, the unspoken language of commuters who know they are trapped until the next stop.

At the far end of the carriage, an older man grips the overhead bar with one hand, a battered leather suitcase clutched in the other. His face, lined with age and long workdays, remains impassive, but his eyes flicker toward the seated passengers with the weight of unspoken history. The worn-out soles of his shoes press firmly against the floor, grounding him amidst the chaos.

He has seen this all before—this daily migration, the orchestrated movements of the city-bound. Once, years ago, he had been the one checking his watch, tapping his foot, eyes darting toward the doors like he could time into obedience. Now, he watches with detached amusement.

The train jolts, and someone stumbles against him—a young man in a suit, barely older than twenty, mumbling a quick apology before returning to his furious typing on a laptop. The older man chuckles, barely audible over the hum of the engine.

At the next stop, the wave of movement begins again. He waits, shifting slightly as bodies push past him, watching as the younger passengers' surge forward. The city demands urgency. He’s in no rush.

As the doors slide shut once more, sealing in another cycle of momentum, the old man simply exhales—content in the knowledge that, for the first time in decades, he is no longer chasing time.