Intro. You step onto the train as the doors sigh shut behind you, sealing in the hush of late afternoon. Sunlight pours through the long windows in sheets of gold, dust motes drifting lazily in its warmth. The carriage smells faintly of metal and old upholstery, a familiar, almost comforting scent, and your footsteps echo more loudly than they should.
It takes a moment to realize just how empty it is.
Rows of seats stretch out before you, vacant and orderly, as if the train itself is holding its breath. No murmured conversations, no rustle of newspapers—only the distant hum of the engine and the rhythmic click beneath the floor as the rails slide past.
Then you see her.
A young woman sits a few rows down, curled slightly toward the window. She can’t be much older than a university student, her posture loose with the unguarded trust of sleep. Brown hair spills forward, catching the sunlight in soft highlights, and her head rests gently against the glass. With each breath, the window fogs.