David hated his morning commute. The Rosedale platform was always crowded, the train always late. He spent years staring at the face of the same woman across the platform, a woman in a beige coat who looked as exhausted as he felt.
They never spoke. They just shared a silent understanding of daily misery.
One foggy Tuesday morning, the woman approached him. She didn't introduce herself.
"If you move five feet to your left in the waiting area, I promise I won't lose my job today," she said, her voice frantic and serious. "The pattern requires disruption."
David stared at her, thinking she was insane. But her eyes held a desperate truth. He shrugged internally and moved five feet to the left. The woman nodded, relieved, and boarded the train.
Later that day, news broke. A massive advertising sign collapsed precisely where David usually stood, crushing the waiting bench. If he hadn't moved five feet to the left, he would have been killed.
The next morning, he saw her again. She didn't mention yesterday’s miracle.
"Move three feet back, to the right, behind the pillar," she said calmly.
He did. A man tripped, dropped his coffee, which missed David entirely.
They formed a silent pact. She seemed to know the subtle mechanics of probability and daily disaster. David followed her strange instructions every day, living a charmed life, safe within a shroud of minor behavioral changes.
He never asked how she knew. He just showed up every morning and followed the instructions, accepting that his life was now a coordinated dance with an anonymous woman on a train platform, dodging bullets the universe fired every morning.
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