The Tube was their bubble. Outside, they were strangers in a city of nine million. Inside, they were a private world of whispered jokes and shared stops.
In the unspoken etiquette of the London Underground, eye contact is a felony. But by week four, a shared groan over a "signal failure at Finchley Road" broke the seal.
The rhythmic "click-clack" of the Jubilee Line was the only soundtrack to Clara’s morning, until the man with the yellow umbrella started appearing at the third carriage, second door, every single Tuesday.