Daniel let out a slow breath, sinking into the train seat as snow-streaked trees blurred past the window. For the first time in days, his muscles began to relax. The quiet car was peaceful—just the hum of the tracks, no calls or emails, no one demanding anything from him. He closed his eyes, ready to drift.
Then—a sharp thud struck his lower back. Not loud, but jarring. He froze, and before he could react, another kick landed, then another. His fragile calm was already unraveling.
Daniel tried to ignore the steady kicking, willing himself to find calm again. He peered over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the culprit: a boy, maybe six or seven, legs swinging with a mindless rhythm. Across the aisle, the child’s mother was buried in her phone, headphones in, seemingly oblivious. Daniel waited, hoping the kicking would stop. But it didn’t. Every few seconds, another jolt hit his spine.
He turned halfway in his seat and addressed the boy gently, “Hey, buddy, could you try not to kick the seat? Makes it tough to relax.” The boy only blinked at him, unmoved, a faint smile on his lips. Daniel offered a polite smile back, turned forward, and for a brief moment, silence returned—until another kick, harder this time, rattled his coffee cup.
Daniel clenched his jaw, hands curling into fists in his lap. His much-anticipated pocket of peace was slipping away with each thud. He tried to reason it was just a kid being restless. But with every strike, his patience frayed, reminding him of all the times he’d let things slide for the sake of politeness. Another thud. He closed his eyes, exhaled sharply, and counted to five.