The Stranger on the Train

The Stranger on the Train

Writer : King Pokhtoon

It was 7:45 in the morning, and the train to downtown New York was already full.

Phones glowed like tiny moons in everyone’ s hands. No one spoke. No one looked up.

The world had become a quiet crowd.

Liam, thirty-four, sat near the window, scrolling endlessly through news he didn’t care about. The world outside rushed past in streaks of gray, and his reflection stared back at him—tired eyes, half-buttoned coat, coffee stain on his sleeve.

He used to think mornings were beautiful. Now they just felt empty.

Then she entered.

A woman in her mid-twenties, holding a small sketchbook, squeezed into the seat across from him. Her hair was tied loosely, her hands stained with pencil dust. She didn’t touch her phone. Instead, she opened her sketchbook and began to draw.

Liam tried not to look, but curiosity betrayed him.

No one drew anymore. Not in trains. Not in public.

It felt like something sacred was happening in a forgotten world.

After a few minutes, she noticed his stare.

“You can look if you want,” she said with a soft laugh. “You’re kind of part of it.”

He blinked. “Part of what?”

She turned the sketchbook around.

There he was — a quick sketch of his reflection on the train window, blurred with streaks of rain and city lights. His own eyes, distant and lost.

“That’s… me?” he asked, startled.

“Yeah , ” she said, smiling. “You looked like you were trying to remember who you were.”

Her words land ed like a gentle punch to the chest. He didn’ t know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time in months, someone had seen him — not just his face, but the quiet ache behind it.

The train slowed . Next stop: Midtown She closed the book and stood up .

“Wait—do you sell your art?” he asked quickly. “I’d like to buy it.”

She shook her head. “No. I just draw people who seem like they need to remember they’re real.”

He wanted to ask her name, but she was already gone, swallowed by the crowd.

He sat frozen, staring at the seat she’d left behind — the faint scent of graphite and rain still hanging in the air.

When he finally reached his office, something inside him had changed.

He closed his laptop, ignored the flood of emails, and for the first time in years, opened the old notebook he used to write poetry in.

At lunch, he took a walk outside. The city felt new again — loud, alive, full of faces he’d never noticed before.

He watched a little boy chasing pigeons, an old man feeding them crumbs, a couple arguing over a map.

It was chaotic, messy, human.

That evening, on the same train home, Liam carried a small notebook of his own.

He looked around — rows of silent commuters lost in blue screens.

And then he began to draw. His hands were clumsy, lines uneven, but he didn’t care.

At the next station, a teenager sitting beside him leaned over and whispered,

“Hey, that’s good. Who taught you to draw?”

Liam smiled. “A stranger. ”

The boy nodded, curious. “Where is she now?”

He looked out the window — rain painting the glass once again.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But I think she’s everywhere.”

Outside, the city lights blurred in to rivers of gold.

Inside the train, for the first time in a long while, people were looking up — at the rain, at the reflection, at each other.

end