The Platform, The Sprint, The Stop
Brakes squealed. Doors sighed open. Two station agents in bright vests were already there, palms out, forming a soft barrier between the girl and the crowd. Across the platform, a woman ran—hair loose, eyes wide, face wet.
“Hold,” one agent said into his radio. The opposite train was held for a beat that felt like grace.
Mason didn’t move first. He looked at the girl. “Do you want to walk to your mom, or do you want me to walk with you?”
“With,” she said, tiny but clear.
He rose, Biscuit’s leash within the girl’s grip and his hand hovering near—never on—like a guardrail no one sees. They stepped onto the platform together. The crowd actually made space.
