The train rattled softly beneath her as it wound through the countryside, the dim light filtering through the rain-streaked windows. She tugged her coat tighter, the January chill stubbornly clinging to the air despite the warmth inside.

Across from her, you sat—silent, thoughtful, your gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder. She wondered what it was you were looking at—or what you weren't.

She tried to focus on the book resting on her lap, its pages slightly crinkled from the moisture clinging to her gloves, but her eyes kept darting up towards you. There was something disarming in your presence. Not imposing, but constant. Like the quiet presence of an open fire—steady, quietly warming without expectation.

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her scarf as she debated the thought that had danced at the edge of her mind since you had taken the seat opposite hers two stops ago.

Did you recognize her? Or were you a stranger entirely?

The glance you offered her next was unassuming, as though you weren't quite aware of its impact. For a moment, their eyes locked, and her breath caught before she looked away, cheeks warming despite the weather. She never used to be this self-conscious, not before—well, not before you.

And now, here she was, stealing glances at a stranger and thinking of another lifetime. The train lurched slightly, and her book slipped from her lap. You bent instinctively, your hand brushing hers as you retrieved it. She froze at the touch—brief but disarming.

“Thank you,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Your smile was faint, more in your eyes than on your lips. You said nothing, but the way you handed the book back felt deliberate, like you were lingering in the space between what had been and what could be.