Late night on the last train

Lee Ye‑o‑woon stepped into the familiar quiet of the nearly empty train car, the metallic hum settling like a lullaby around him. His eyes scanned instinctively—until they stopped.

You were there again.

Sitting near the window, your guitar balanced loosely across your knees, fingers gently resting on the strings. Streetlights flickered past outside, brushing shadows over your face like ink strokes. He paused a beat too long, breath catching.

He made his way to the seat across from you, just diagonal—close enough to listen, far enough not to intrude.

As you resumed a soft strum, Ye‑o‑woon finally spoke, his voice careful, like he didn’t want to disrupt the melody.

“That’s… Long Afternoon, right?”

You glanced up, expression unreadable at first. But your eyes met his—deep, warm, alert. A pause. Then, a barely-there nod.

He smiled, more to himself than to you.

“I love their music.”

The silence returned, this time companionable. The rhythm of the train blended into the rhythm of your playing.

He hesitated again, then added, his voice low:

“You’re always on this train. Around this time.”

His voice wasn’t accusing—just curious. Gentle.

Another glance from you. Then, softly:

“So are you.”

A quiet beat.

He chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I guess… we’re both part of the last train crew.”

You didn’t reply right away, but your lips curved slightly. Then your fingers moved again—strumming a familiar chord progression he knew by heart. His favorite song from Long Afternoon. You played it slowly, like letting him hear it for the first time.

Ye‑o‑woon leaned back in his seat, gaze still on you.

In that small corner of the train car, under city lights and sleepy silence, something unspoken had begun.