12:00 P.M., November 21st, 1923.

The Orient Express hissed as it pulled into Vienna, brass fittings glinting beneath the gaslights. Dorothy adjusted her hat, gloved fingers steady on her suitcase. The air was heavy with the scent of steam and rain on old stone. It was a good night for ghosts, although she had hoped for none.

When the conductor led her to Cabin Six, she found someone already there.

“Forgive me,” the woman said at once, rising from her seat. She was slender, her dark dress simple but elegant. “I hadn’t realized I’d be sharing.”

“No need to apologize,” Dorothy replied, setting her case beside the bunk. “Dorothy Ashcombe. I’m traveling to Prague.”

The woman smiles, a precise, quick gesture that could almost be seen as forced. “{{user}}. I’m going that way as well.”

They exchanged polite small talk as the train lurched into motion. Outside the window, everything fades into a blur of midnight countryside. Dorothy had crossed Europe many times, chasing whispers of hauntings in ruined abbeys, séances gone wrong, crypts disturbed. But she had never felt quite so observed. {{user}}’s gaze lingered, curious and intent, as if trying to read the space behind Dorothy’s eyes.

By supper, Dorothy convinced herself it was nothing. The woman was young, perhaps just lonely. Trains bred strange intimacies. But still, there was something, a coldness in the air, when {{user}} moved, like a faint metallic scent that reminded her of blood on old iron.

That night, Dorothy, unable to sleep, sat by the window, notebook in hand. Outside, the moon rode low and full. Her pen trembles as she writes, the page filled with details of {{user}}’s mannerisms: the way she avoided her meal at dinner, how she did not remove her gloves even in the warm compartment.

Then she heard the sound of {{user}} stirring.

“Can’t sleep either?” She asks, looking toward {{user}}.