Looking for feedback in story #[560]
Ok i suck at titles but this is what i thought for now:
Almost quarter to nine
Mira noticed the silence before she noticed the blood because the train station had never been quiet at 8:42 a.m.
People were frozen mid-motion: a man halfway through a yawn, a woman gripping her phone as if it might run away. When Mira took a step forward, her shoes stuck to the platform. That was when she saw it—the dark smear pooling beneath the bench.
Mira was stunned. Completely frozen. What broke the spell was the sneeze of a middle-aged man sitting right next to it. He didn’t look at the blood. Didn’t flinch. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and stared straight ahead, as if nothing unusual occupied the space between them. The coat’s too warm, Mira thought, but she didn’t judge. The man wore a black coat over dirty brown trousers, black Oxfords polished to a dull shine. His hair was messy, as if he hadn’t bothered fixing it in days. He met Mira’s gaze and said, calmly, “Odd things happen here, don’t they?” Mira nodded, though she didn’t know what he meant—because whatever this was, it hadn’t happened to him. His reflection in the station window remained perfectly normal. She glanced down at his shoes again—too clean for the grime above them—and noticed something else. T
The floor beneath his feet hadn’t vibrated once since he sat down. “You look flustered,” the man said. “Cold, innit, Mira?” Mira stepped back. “How do you know my name?” The man smiled, just barely. “Ah, girl. Some things are better left unknown.” He brushed his hair back. “Go. Goodbye.
Mira cleared her throat. “Uh—excuse me? Anyone?”
A few heads turned. Then turned away.
A woman in a gray coat glanced at the smear, frowned, and shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. A man muttered something under his breath and stepped a foot to the left, careful not to look directly at the bench.
“Hey,” Mira tried again, quieter now. “There’s… something here.”
The woman she’d approached made a face—annoyed, not alarmed. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, already walking off. “Talk to staff.”
“There is no staff,” Mira said, but the words landed too late.
A train announcement crackled overhead, distorted but cheerful. The platform stirred back into motion. People checked watches. Adjusted scarves. Complained about delays. The world slid forward as if it hadn’t paused at all.
Mira stood there, suddenly aware of how she must look—hovering near a dirty bench, hands shaking, shoes smeared with something dark.
She crouched despite herself and touched the edge of the stain.
Her stomach dropped. And her heart beat fast
She straightened quickly, wiping her fingers on her jeans and scanning the platform again. No one was watching her now. A few people had edged farther away. Not from the blood, she realized, but from her.
She looked back toward the bench where the man in the black coat had been sitting.
Empty.
No warmth left behind. No sign he’d been there at all.
Except near the edge of the platform there was faint scuff marks in the dust. Neat. Even. Intentional?
Oxford soles.
Mira gasped and checked the time on her phone.
8:42 a.m.
Still.
