Not empty — commuters still shuffle past with briefcases and tired eyes — but quiet in the way places get when winter’s settling in early. Cold air seeps through every gap in the platform shelter. Breath fogs in front of faces.

The overhead lights flicker once.

And then the gate creaks open behind you.

Heavy footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried.

His hands are shoved into his pockets.

But you notice the way his thumb taps against his thigh, twice, quick.

Impatient.

Or maybe excited. With him, it’s hard to tell the difference.

But you know him. You know why he’s saying it at all.