Every Friday, as the workweek exhales its final breath, I embark on the same pilgrimage homeward. The ritual unfolds with clockwork precision—board the crowded train, scan the sea of faces for an empty seat, and then surrender to the gentle rocking motion until sleep claims me. On this particular Friday, fortune smiled upon me earlier than usual. Just one stop into the journey, I secured a coveted seat—a small victory in the battlefield of weekend commuters. With practiced efficiency, I transformed my weathered bag into a makeshift pillow and collapsed into the seat, ready to be carried away on the dual tracks of steel and dreams. But sleep, that elusive companion, wouldn't come. Something kept tugging at the edges of my consciousness—quite literally. A persistent tapping against my leg forced my heavy eyelids open, and there he stood—a miniature human whose presence filled the train compartment far beyond his physical dimensions. This little human—no more than three and a half fe...