Serendipity by ASD

Every day, Ian walks home from work—a routine that recently brought curiosity into his mundane life. At the end of each shift, he passes through the same train station depot. Muted colors of bleached sand and stale concrete fill the air. Fuzzy conversations of people on their phones, echoing leather footsteps, rustling newspaper pages, and hollow, computerized arrival announcements drift from hidden speakers. Within less than a minute, Ian crosses this brief segment of dullness amidst a vibrant city landscape. But not every day.

Occasionally, this small, monotonous area pulses with unseen color. On these particular days, Ian senses a subtle vibration, a steady hum that fills his lungs like mineral-rich gravity. It warms his skin and clears his mind. On such days, he sees a peculiar woman.

It's not the woman herself who draws Ian’s interest—not her clothes, not her looks, not even because she’s a woman. It's her presence. Always seated on the same bench, isolated from the faceless crowd. People never venture close to her spot. Beside her bench stands a bus sign and a neglected driveway. Every time Ian has noticed her, she’s calmly reading a heavily worn book, changing weekly in color and size, but always aged and well-loved. She remains serene, far removed from the bustling traffic bound by schedules.

Ian wonders, "Does she not realize her surroundings? Surely she sits there for a reason?"

Especially intriguing are the days when she occasionally looks up with expectation, briefly glancing away as though anticipating someone's arrival. Ian thinks, "Has she been waiting this long? Doesn't she know the bus stop is closed?"

Yet, after a brief glance, the woman returns to her book, smiling peacefully, immersed in contented stillness. While her tranquility is pleasant, Ian's true fascination lies in her seemingly endless wait. The bench is at a bus stop, decommissioned for over a year. Even the roundabout is blocked off, preventing vehicles from approaching.

"Does she not see it? Has she even looked?"

Two days ago, Ian resolved to take action. Today, he hopes to carry out his plan. Like a familiar song one listens to endlessly, never tiring of its rhythm, Ian walks through the station, noticing her again. His heart quickens. Breathing deeply, gathering courage, he alters his path, stopping near an overhang so she might notice him if she looks up. Pulling out his sketchbook, he tears off a page and writes a message, anxiety and determination competing within him.

Ian approaches her slowly, tracing an elliptical path to appear non-threatening. Eyes downcast but aware, he slips the folded note into the crease of the bench as he passes. The paper protrudes slightly, visible to her at a glance, just beyond arm’s reach. It reads:

"Just in case you didn’t know, this bus line has been decommissioned."

Ian briefly turns towards her with a hopeful smile, but she doesn't look up. Slightly disappointed, he continues homeward.

"She'll see it. It’s right there. How could she not see it?"

The next day, Ian retraces his routine, thoughts tumbling anxiously: "Did she see the note? Will she be there today? Was I too forward, too rude? Maybe she already knows—maybe she just likes the bench."

Today, the woman is absent. In her place, Ian notices a blue envelope tucked into the bench. Cautiously approaching, he retrieves it, feeling the heavy, soft texture, colored like a watercolor sunset. He sits down and opens the envelope, revealing a sheet of bright, lemon-drop-colored paper. It reads:

"I know. Thank you. I am just a girl waiting for a bus that will never come. Like the sun reflecting off water that never gets seen."

Ian leans back, shocked. She knew. He feels foolish, but quickly shakes it off. An idea surfaces, and he sketches her silhouette sitting peacefully on her bench, surrounded by serene, reflective water under sunlight, watched by a curious squirrel in the distance. On the back, he writes:

"If such a reflection is never seen, I am just a boy in a world of the blind. A wandering dog who knows of a rainbow."

He folds his sketch into an envelope, writing on the outside: "A Girl Waiting," and slips it into the familiar spot on the bench.

The following day, Ian spots her again, reading a comic book—a surprising choice. He stops, smiling to himself, certain she’s seen his message. His nerves prevent him from approaching. "Maybe I've done enough," he thinks. Turning to leave, he notices another pristine envelope taped to a concrete pillar nearby. It reads simply: "Rainbow."

Ian carefully opens it to find a sunny-yellow paper inside:

"If Poe could see what others miss, maybe the squirrel speaks like this. On flights observed every day, where does a potion hang by the bay? Perched in waiting, one of these ways, perhaps a reflection soon will sway."

Turning it over, he finds more words: "A boy noticed."

Ian looks back at the bench, but she's gone. Thoughts swirl—"Poe? Potion? Bay? Capital letters spell 'Friday.'" His eyes catch a notice board at a deli window featuring a raven, next to a wolf baying at the moon, then an open mic flyer for a nearby coffee shop. "Coffee—potion by the bay—clever," he realizes. It’s Friday.

Ian pulls a green marker from his backpack and draws a hoodie icon where the envelope was. Later, at the coffee shop, he wears a green hoodie, scanning the crowd nervously, unsure why he's there. After performances end, a barista delivers a note to his table, smiling cryptically. Ian flips the green post-it over, reading: "You see me."

He looks around, heart pounding. "Did I miss her? Was she on stage?"

Realization strikes, and Ian laughs quietly. Standing, he presses the note to his forehead. Across the room, another figure mirrors his gesture—a faint blue reflection. It’s her.

He slowly crosses the room, ignoring curious glances, until their eyes meet. She smiles warmly, giggling softly. On her forehead, the note reads:

"I see you."