The Fall of the Ordinary

“The Fall of the Ordinary” By Edward J. McCoul

It was an unremarkable Tuesday morning, the kind with gray clouds hanging low in the sky and a damp chill that sank through coats and sweaters. The city pulsed with the habitual rhythm of commuters, all bundled against the November cold and huddling in the subway station, heads down, shoulders hunched. Among them, Nora Watters was just another face—mid-thirties, average height, a tired face framed by dark hair she barely noticed anymore. Her life, too, was worn, frayed around the edges, like a favorite old coat you keep wearing long after its warmth is gone.

If someone had told her she was meant for more, she would’ve scoffed. A few years ago, she might’ve argued, too. Now, the idea just made her shrug. Nora had long accepted that she was just... ordinary.

She’d heard it in a thousand ways, in her job as a copy editor at Metro Magazine, in the bored expressions of her past boyfriends, in the mirror every morning. She had given up trying to prove anyone wrong. She lived in a small apartment that felt even smaller in winter, with drafty windows that rattled like old bones. She hadn’t had a real vacation in five years, and the last time she’d gone out dancing, it ended in a sprained ankle and an embarrassing emergency room visit.

But as she waited on the subway platform that morning, the usual grayness felt sharper, starker. She didn’t just feel average; she felt erased, like all the color and warmth had drained from her. In her hand, she clutched the strap of her tote bag a little tighter, something desperate rising in her chest that she tried to swallow back down. Life, she thought, was a series of waiting platforms, and maybe she was just... waiting for a train that was never coming.

Then, out of nowhere, a flicker of movement caught her eye. A child—a girl, no older than ten—was dashing through the crowd. The girl’s laughter bounced off the tiled walls, bright and reckless. In her hands, she held a paper airplane, a simple little thing with delicate, precise folds. She darted toward the edge of the platform, lifted her hand, and released it.

The plane soared, twirling above the heads of the commuters, and in that moment, something about it took Nora’s breath away. The girl’s eyes sparkled as she watched her creation fly, her face lit with a joy that seemed too bright for the shadowed subway station. And then, she spoke, a clear voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd.

“Look! It flies!” she said, as if sharing a secret with everyone around her.

A few people glanced her way, bemused or indifferent, but no one seemed to share her wonder. Except for Nora, who couldn’t look away. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she was mesmerized by this small, paper plane gliding through the stale subway air, as if defying the limits of its own creation.

The plane dipped and landed, skidding to a stop at her feet. Nora reached down, picking it up carefully. The paper was soft with wear, its edges crinkled and stained with faint pencil marks. She turned it over in her hands, and then she saw it—three faint words, written in careful, looping script along one wing:

I believe in magic.

She felt a strange tug in her chest, something almost like pain. It had been so long since she’d believed in anything, let alone magic. She looked up to find the girl standing in front of her, watching her with wide, expectant eyes.

“Can I have it back?” the girl asked, shy but smiling. “It’s my best one.”

Nora’s face softened, a warmth she couldn’t quite explain spreading through her. “Of course,” she said, handing it back. “It’s... a beautiful plane.”

The girl looked down at her plane with a quiet pride. “I made it fly,” she said, as if she could still hardly believe it herself.

Nora hesitated, a hundred questions rising to the surface, questions she hadn’t even known were there. “Why do you believe in magic?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

The girl looked up, her face serious. “Because everything’s better when you believe in magic,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And then, just as suddenly as she’d appeared, she darted off into the crowd, her laughter trailing behind her. Nora watched her go, feeling as if something precious and inexplicable had slipped through her fingers.

The train arrived, its doors hissing open, and she stepped inside, feeling a strange emptiness settle over her. But as the train moved through the tunnels, the little girl’s words echoed in her mind. I believe in magic.

Nora didn’t know why, but those words felt like a spark in the dark, a flicker of light she didn’t want to let go of.

That night, Nora lay in her small, drafty apartment, staring up at the ceiling. The radiator clanked and groaned, filling the silence with its dull, metallic complaints. Outside, the city was alive with its usual noise, cars honking, voices drifting up from the streets. But her mind was elsewhere.

She kept seeing the girl’s face, the glint of wonder in her eyes. It had been so long since she’d felt anything close to that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself believe in anything beyond the concrete facts of her life. And yet… something in her wanted to know more, wanted to understand what that girl had felt, standing on the subway platform with her paper plane.

The thought felt both ridiculous and exhilarating. She, a grown woman, thinking about magic. She almost laughed at herself, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. It was like a pebble lodged in her shoe, too small to cause real pain but impossible to ignore.

The next day, she found herself back at the subway station, standing in the exact same spot, scanning the crowd for a familiar flash of movement. She didn’t know what she was hoping for—a miracle, maybe, or just another glimpse of that little girl and her paper airplane. She felt foolish, and yet something inside her was desperate, clinging to the possibility that there might be more to life than she’d let herself see.

For three days, she went back, waiting on the platform, telling herself she’d just go once more, just to be sure. But by the fourth day, she was ready to give up. She felt the familiar ache of disappointment settle over her, and she turned to leave.

And then, just as she was about to step onto the escalator, she heard it—the bright, unmistakable sound of laughter. She spun around and saw her, the same little girl, standing at the edge of the platform with her plane held high, ready to fly.

“Hey!” Nora called, her voice louder than she’d intended. She waved her hand, trying to catch the girl’s attention.

The girl looked up, surprised, and then she recognized her, a broad smile breaking across her face. She ran over, the paper plane clutched in her hand.

“You came back!” the girl said, looking up at her with wide eyes.

Nora nodded, feeling a strange warmth spread through her. “I did. I... I wanted to see you again.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled. “Do you want to fly a plane with me?” she asked, holding out the one in her hands.

Nora hesitated, feeling the weight of her own self-consciousness. She was a grown woman, standing in the middle of a crowded subway station, about to fly a paper plane with a little girl she didn’t even know. But as she looked into the girl’s eyes, she felt something in her shift, something she couldn’t explain.

Slowly, she reached out and took the plane from the girl’s hand. It was warm, softened by the touch of her small fingers.

“Let’s make it fly,” the girl said, her voice quiet with anticipation. She took a step back, her eyes never leaving Nora’s face.

Nora closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the paper in her hand. For a brief, impossible moment, she could almost feel something else—a sense of lightness, as if she herself could lift off the ground, carried by a force she couldn’t see or understand. And then, with a single, steady breath, she released the plane.

It soared through the air, dipping and swaying, a delicate, fragile thing that seemed to defy gravity. And as she watched it fly, something in her chest broke open, spilling light and warmth into every corner of her being.

When the plane finally drifted back down, she turned to the girl, feeling tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. The girl was watching her with a knowing smile, as if she understood something Nora had only just begun to see.

“Do you believe in magic now?” the girl asked, her voice soft.

Nora nodded, unable to speak. She didn’t know what she believed, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the feeling, the wonder that had taken root in her heart.

In the days that followed, Nora’s life changed in subtle, unexpected ways. She started to notice things she’d once overlooked—the warmth of the sun on her face, the laughter of strangers, the rustle of leaves in the park. She began to feel alive in a way she hadn’t felt in years, as if some part of her had woken up after a long, dreamless sleep.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in shades of pink and gold, she took a fresh piece of paper and folded it carefully, writing her own words along the wing: I am ready.

She stepped out onto her fire escape, holding the plane in her hand, feeling the weight of it, the possibility of it. And as she let it go, watching it soar into the twilight, she felt a deep, unshakable peace settle over her.

Whatever lay ahead, she was no longer afraid.