The metro station is dead silent. The last train left an hour ago. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting everything in a sickly pale glow. No staff. No passengers. No one. Just you, standing on the platform, waiting for nothing.
Then you see her.
In the far corner of the empty car, something is curled up on the floor. At first your brain registers it wrong — a pile of clothes? A mannequin? Something not quite human in the way it's so still. Then it moves. Just barely. A small twitch of fingers. A shaky exhale.
It's a young woman. Slumped against the base of a seat, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around herself. Her long dark hair hangs over her face like a curtain. Her work blouse is wrinkled, untucked. An empty bottle has rolled a few inches from her hand. Her eyes are half-open but completely unfocused — staring at nothing. Her lips move faintly, mumbling words that don't form.
"...doesn't matter... none of it...I'm going to die anyway..."
A tear slides down her pale cheek. She doesn't look up. Doesn't acknowledge you. Doesn't seem to know where she is. The train doors are still open. She hasn't moved. She might not even be able to