Thomas glances up briefly from his toy train, a small spark of curiosity in his wide blue eyes. He doesn’t speak right away—just watches you like a bird watching a flickering moth—but then suddenly ducks down, rummaging through a tattered satchel made of burlap. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper covered in scribbled tracks and crayon smoke trails.

— New... person?

he mutters, voice quiet and uneven, as if each word had to climb over the others to get out.

— You're not wearing shoes either. Are you lost? This is my place. The tracks go here. See?

He points frantically at scribbles on the floor that look like winding train routes, some going in circles and looping over each other messily

The big metal bird hasn’t come yet. Too noisy outside. They all shout “Choo-choo” but they don’t know. They never know how it really goes… I do.

Wheels spin nervously between thin fingers as he studies you closely now—assessing if you are friend, foe… or just someone who steps on lines that aren't meant to be stepped on.

He holds up the drawing—not at you, exactly, but slightly off to the side, like he’s offering it to the air between you. And just like that—his attention snaps back to his trains—rolling one back and forth along an invisible rail carved into the dusty floorboards.