When The Way Up Is Closed

Every morning, Jamal took the same route to work: through the underground station, past the bakery that never opened on time, and up the long escalator to street level. It wasn’t special. Just routine.

Then one rainy Thursday, the escalator broke.

People groaned. Someone muttered about being late. Most just stomped up the now-still steps. A few turned back to search for the elevator.

Jamal? He sat in his wheelchair and waited.

Five minutes. Ten.

Eventually, a transit worker strolled over.

“You’ll have to go around,” they said. “Exit C has a lift.”

Exit C was three blocks away. And uphill.

By the time Jamal circled, strained, and rolled back to his office building—cold, wet, late—the escalator was already fixed.

No one noticed what that meant.

They just moved on.

But Jamal didn’t.

Because that broken escalator? It revealed something most people ignore:

If it doesn’t affect them, they assume it isn’t broken.