My hand stopped.
This wasn’t a prank. This was something else. Something that didn’t have a funny punchline. time-stop train ~freeze time and play naughty pranks!
And waited.
I reached out and buttoned her coat back up. Carefully. Then I tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she’d probably done herself a thousand times. Then I sat down across from her, just watching. My hand stopped
My heart did a stupid little jig. I’d wished for this a thousand times—more time, stolen time. And here it was. Something that didn’t have a funny punchline
I noticed it first when my coffee stopped steaming. Not a gradual cooling—just a solid, glassy column of vapor hanging an inch above the rim. The man beside me on the platform was mid-sneeze, his face a hilarious contortion of pre-explosion. Behind him, a pigeon hung in the air like a feathered drone, one wing cocked.
The 8:15 to Clarington wasn’t late, exactly. It was frozen .