She would always wear the same outfit—battered tan trenchcoat, leather boots and a dazed, trance-like expression. Every Tuesday, at exactly 4 o’clock, she would saunter through the East entrance, ride the escalator up to the first floor and sit on the right-hand side of the three-seater, stainless steel bench that overlooked the concourse. She sat for exactly an hour. She did not read a book, nor did she Crush Candy on her smartphone. She merely sat, twirling strands of greying hair between her fingers as she observed the throng of panting commuters.… more
