Smudge

It's funny how the mind works. Like how it goes out of its way to make sense out of nothing... find patterns in the most random things. Even after a long day (and half a night) at work... even after being lulled to sleep by the rumbling white noise of the nearly empty train...

What is that?

The train passes another light and I can see it clearly. A cluster of smudges on the outside of the window. I can feel my mind gnawing at the puzzle as it pulls itself awake.

What... is it?

The three shapeless smudges wouldn't be anything at all if it weren't for the thick, elongated shapes protruding from them.

Fingers.

A Hand.

But it was much too big. And the fingers ended in smaller protrusions reminiscent of claws. Yet, the proportions and the angles were perfect. A handprint. Just not of a human hand.

I put my own hand against the glass to measure the shape. The collection of random smears was more twice the size of my meager palm. It wasn't until I took my hand away that I realized the smudges weren't on the outside of the window. They were on the inside.

And they hadn't been there when I'd sat down.