The digital board flickered, flashing 'DELAYED' in angry red letters, while the slow, rhythmic squeak of the overhead cleaning cart echoed down the tiled platform. We stood near the yellow warning stripe, watching the dust motes catch the harsh overhead light. The empty plastic chair sat exactly where it had been all morning, its backrest bearing the numbers 1 through 10, which then reset perfectly to 4. A faint, metallic scent—ozone mixed with stale coffee—hung low, clinging to the wet cigarette butts in the nearby tray. The cleaning cart squeaked again, stopping directly beside the chair, and the attendant paused, his eyes fixed on the repeating '4'. It was the only number that mattered, the one that refused to progress, forcing everyone waiting to remember the exact sequence of the start.
static · uneasy