Chapter 3 — Blackout Begins

Third Person

The subway screeched to a halt with a jarring jolt, sending a ripple of gasps and muttered curses through the crowded car. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered violently before succumbing to an oppressive darkness, plunging the passengers into uneasy silence. The air shifted, thick with the mingled scents of damp clothes, grease, and the faint metallic tang of the tracks. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled roar of another train faded into nothingness, leaving only the whispers of the city’s endless hum.

Lily Anderson leaned her head back against the cold metal wall of the subway car, her fingers tracing absent patterns on a sticker of a faded Woodstock logo on her guitar case. The edges of the sticker curled slightly, a sign of wear from years of traveling with her. She exhaled sharply through her nose, muttering, “Typical,” under her breath. New York City—unpredictable, relentless, always finding a way to turn the mundane into another test of resilience. Her thumb flicked over the edge of the sticker. The memory of her mother sticking it on the case during a late-night jam session surfaced unbidden, a fleeting comfort she quickly tucked away.

The stillness in the car grew heavier with every passing second. A baby whimpered from somewhere near the door, the sound quickly muffled by the soft, steady shushing of a parent. A man in a rumpled suit grumbled into his phone, oblivious to the lack of signal. The faint glow of phone screens scattered throughout the car cast shifting patterns of light and shadow onto the passengers, their faces flickering like ghosts in an old film.

Ethan Caldwell adjusted the strap of his leather bag and glanced at the silver face of his watch, its faint tick a reminder of the time slipping away. He’d been timing his commute, as always—a ritual born from habit, from routine, from a need to impose structure on the chaos. Now, the stopped train had thrown everything off: the meeting he should already have been walking into, the emails waiting unanswered in his inbox, the fragile sense of order that dictated his days. His jaw tightened as he stared into the dim shadows of the car, his fingers brushing the worn strap of his watch. For a brief moment, he considered pulling out his vintage camera from his bag—it had been years since he’d deliberately used it—but the thought felt absurd here, surrounded by strangers in the dim light. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the strap and stared at the darkness, the city’s relentless motion reduced to a standstill.

As her eyes adjusted to the faint light, Lily’s gaze swept idly over the other passengers, skimming faces and expressions without much thought—until it landed on him. The man in the suit sat straight-backed, his posture precise, as if refusing to let the chaos press in on him. His face was sharp and focused, but there was something just beneath the surface—a flicker of unease, of restlessness—that made her pause. He seemed out of place here, too carefully contained for a setting so unapologetically raw. Her fingers stilled on the edge of her guitar case. Who was he, and why did he seem so… distant, even while sharing the same cramped air as everyone else?

The oppressive silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional shuffle of feet or the hum of a phone screen. Then, from the bench near the middle of the car, a voice emerged, soft yet resonant.

“This is an opportunity, you know.”

All heads turned toward the speaker—a petite elderly woman with silver-white hair elegantly pinned into a bun. Her posture was poised, her hands resting lightly on a leather handbag that looked as though it had carried half a lifetime of secrets. Unlike the others, she didn’t seem perturbed by the stalled train. In fact, she wore a faint smile, as if the abrupt halt were more of a curiosity than an inconvenience.

“An opportunity?” someone scoffed—a middle-aged man with a Yankees cap and an impatient tone. “What, to sit here and stew?”

The woman’s smile didn’t waver. “An opportunity to pause. To look around. To connect.” Her voice carried the kind of calm that demanded attention, each word deliberate. “How often are we forced to stop in this city that never does?”

A murmur passed through the car, a mix of skepticism, curiosity, and something else—something quieter. Lily shifted in her seat, intrigued despite herself. Around her, the passengers exchanged glances. Some rolled their eyes or turned back to their screens, but a few lingered, their gazes softening.

“What do you mean, ‘connect’? We’re stuck in the dark, lady,” someone called out, though not unkindly.

“Well,” the woman said, her eyes glinting with a spark of mischief, “we could start by sharing our stories. You’d be surprised by what you might discover.”

A bark of laughter came from a young man leaning against the doorframe. “What is this, therapy?”

“Maybe,” the older woman said, and there was something so disarming in her tone that even he cracked a grin.

The silence was fragile now, expectant. Then, unexpectedly, a man near the center of the car cleared his throat. “I’m a chef,” he began, his voice hesitant. “Last week, this guy came into my restaurant and asked for his risotto… raw.”

The absurdity of the statement drew a ripple of laughter, the tension in the car easing by degrees. Encouraged, the chef launched into the full story, his animated gestures and dry humor sparking more chuckles. Even Lily found herself smiling, the sound unfamiliar yet welcome. She glanced across the car again and caught the suited man—the one with the sharp blue-grey eyes—watching the exchange. His expression had shifted, the lines of his face subtly softened, though his gaze remained introspective. When their eyes met briefly, he looked away almost instantly, fiddling with the strap of his bag.

“You’re a musician, aren’t you?” The elderly woman’s voice startled Lily, pulling her attention back.

Lily blinked. “What gave me away?” she asked wryly, motioning to her guitar case.

The woman’s smile widened. “Music has a way of clinging to its makers,” she said softly. “Even without a sound, it’s there.”

Lily hesitated, her grip on the case tightening. Images flickered in her mind: the thrill of her first subway performance when a small crowd had gathered around, her mother’s quiet pride when she heard Lily hum one of her original melodies, the sting of rejection when a club owner dismissed her as “just another busker.” Music was her language, her refuge, but it was also her vulnerability, a piece of herself she couldn’t hide. “I guess it’s just… how I say things,” she managed, the words stumbling out. “When I can’t figure out how to say them any other way.”

The woman nodded, her smile softening. “That makes perfect sense.”

Lily glanced down, grateful for the darkness to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. The silence stretched, and then, without fully thinking, she tilted her head toward the suited man. “What about you?” she asked.

Ethan stiffened, clearly startled to find himself addressed. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, he shifted, his hand brushing over the strap of his watch. “I… I used to take photographs,” he said, his voice low but steady. “In college.”

“Used to?” Lily pressed, her tone teasing but not unkind. “What happened? Did your camera break?”

He hesitated, his fingers tightening around his bag strap. “Life happened,” he said simply, though a hint of regret tinged his words.

Lily’s brow arched. “Lousy excuse,” she quipped, her voice light but probing.

For a second, she thought she’d pushed too far, but then his lips curved into the faintest smile. “Maybe,” he murmured, his tone almost self-deprecating.

The fragile thread of connection hung between them, taut but unbroken. Around them, the passengers had begun talking again, the hum of voices filling the once-stifling silence. Lily leaned back, her fingers once again tracing the edge of her guitar case, though her mind was elsewhere. The suited man had stirred something in her—a flicker of curiosity she wasn’t sure she wanted to acknowledge.

Ethan, meanwhile, felt his gaze drifting back to her. Something about her—the rawness, the unapologetic way she spoke—tugged at him, like the memory of a photograph he’d once taken but couldn’t quite place.

When the lights flickered back to life and the train lurched forward, the moment dissolved. But the weight of their words, spoken and unspoken, lingered, neither fully ready to let go of the unexpected connection forged in the dark.