This wasn’t a prank. This was something else. Something that didn’t have a funny punchline.
I stepped back. The silence pressed in. I looked down the frozen train—at the upside-down newspaper, the swapped phone, the mustached baby. My little kingdom of stolen seconds. My stomach turned.
And waited.
This was the real gift. Not the pranks. Her . Motionless, unaware, perfect.
She was standing by the rear door, looking out at the frozen platform. Dark curls, a silver ring on her thumb, a paperback in her hand. The title: The Art of Small Cruelties . I laughed out loud. The sound died in the thick, still air. time-stop train ~freeze time and play naughty pranks!
My hand stopped.
But I knew. And I’d never un-know what I almost became when no one was watching. This wasn’t a prank
I stepped close. Too close. She couldn’t object. I traced a finger along her sleeve. Then I pulled her ponytail elastic out, just to see her hair fall. Then I unbuttoned the top button of her coat. Just to see. Then the next.