“You’re wasting ten minutes every day,” the station master said. “One day you’ll realize it.”

Aarav only smiled.

Every evening, before catching his train home, he spent ten minutes arranging the chairs on Platform Three. His mother waited for him every night with warm dinner, so those ten minutes were precious. Still, he returned early the next day.

Most people never noticed. Some dragged the chairs away. Others left them upside down after rushing onto crowded trains.

One evening, an elderly man sat down with a grateful sigh.

“Whoever keeps this chair here,” he whispered, “must understand tired legs.”

Aarav heard him but said nothing.

Days later, heavy rain flooded the platform. Umbrellas bumped into each other, children cried, and passengers hurried through puddles. By the time Aarav arrived, every chair lay scattered.

For the first time, he wondered if the station master had been right.

Then he saw an elderly woman holding a walking stick. She looked around for somewhere to rest.

Aarav quietly lifted one chair, wiped away the rain, and placed it beside a pillar.

She smiled as she sat down.

“You saved my knees,” she said.

The train arrived. Aarav rushed aboard, carrying only that small smile home with him.

Months later, he was transferred to another station.

On his last evening, he walked across Platform Three and stopped.

Every chair was already neatly arranged.

A college student straightened one last chair before disappearing into the crowd.

Aarav smiled.

The habit had found another pair of hands.