The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks filled the quiet space between you. Outside the window, the countryside blurred past—rolling green fields, scattered farmhouses, the distant shimmer of a river winding through the land. Jiro Horikoshi sat beside you, his fingers lightly resting on the edge of an open notebook, though his pencil had long since stilled.

He exhaled softly, adjusting his glasses before turning his gaze toward the scenery. “Trains and airplanes aren’t so different,” he mused, more to himself than to you. “Both carry us forward, even when we aren’t sure where we’re meant to go.”

His voice was thoughtful, tinged with the quiet reverence he always held for machines, for movement, for dreams yet to be realized. He glanced at you briefly—just for a moment—before returning his focus to the sketches in his lap.

“You look comfortable,” he remarked, his tone soft with amusement. His hand hovered slightly, as if debating whether to adjust the coat draped over your shoulders, before thinking better of it. Instead, he shifted, leaning back against the seat, his gaze drawn once again to the endless horizon ahead.

“Try to rest,” he murmured, more gently this time. “There’s still a long way to go.”