Cart.

A cart with four wheels. Or rather, three—because one is missing. A detail that seems trivial at first glance, but which actually adds an extra layer of tragedy to the entire scene on platform 2. There it sits, crooked, like a wounded soldier after the battle, just barely usable, but too present to ignore. The rain pours down relentlessly on this Monday morning, as commuters shuffle past with their faces averted. No one wonders who the cart belonged to, or what happened to that fourth wheel. And that, unfortunately, says everything about us.

Today's society is a cart with a missing wheel: barely functional, but not as intended. Everything wobbles a little, scrapes, and creaks. We pretend everything's fine, as long as it doesn't collapse. So too does this cart, which still holds its shape, as if refusing to admit its own imperfections. That's what we humans do too: we roll along, lopsided, with difficulty, with an empty space where there once was balance.

The platform itself seems to have become a metaphor for our collective existence: everyone on the move, no one truly present. And in the middle, that cart. Once a tool, now a silent witness to neglect. A symbol of the things we leave behind—not because we don't need them, but because we're too busy to notice they're missing.

The rain makes the scene almost solemn. The puddles around the missing wheel reflect the pale station light; the cart looks as if it's crying. Yet it stands there, stubborn, as if refusing to give up. Humanity in miniature: bent, wet, but too proud to fall.

And everyone rushes past. Phones vibrate, trains beep, someone mumbles about delays. But no one bends over to look for that missing wheel. Perhaps it's somewhere further along, between the tracks, forgotten—or perhaps it was taken by someone who thought one wheel was enough to keep something going.

The missing wheel is the detail that completes the story. Because that small loss, that bit of imbalance, is the essence of the modern world. Everything is almost finished, almost right, almost complete. We move on three wheels and call it progress.

So there it is, the cart on platform 2. Three wheels, one missing. An unintended monument to our time: the era of near-functioning. The rain keeps falling, the trains come and go, and the cart stays where it is. Perhaps it's waiting for that fourth wheel. Or perhaps it knows it won't come back—and has, like all of us, resigned itself to the fact that balance is a luxury long since rolled away.