you wasn’t supposed to be there.

The train station was almost abandoned, the old one, not the new. The one with broken vending machines and flickering lights. You came there sometimes we after school, just to sit, just to breathe, because the world at home was too loud and the world in class was too quiet.

you were still in your uniform. White blouse, dark skirt, a ribbon tied neatly at your throat. A heavy schoolbag pressed to your side, fingers curled around the strap like a lifeline.

It was cold.

And then you saw him.

He was already sitting there, at the far bench under the rusted metal canopy... Smoking. Watching the rails. He didn’t look like someone waiting for a train.

Black coat. Boots scuffed and sharp. A long scar trailing from his jaw to just behind his ear. His hands were in leather gloves. His posture: relaxed, but alert, like a predator pretending to nap.

You hesitated. He looked up. Your eyes met.

Something like cold passed through you..not fear exactly, but something old. Something you feel before you understand it.

You sat four benches away, silently.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

The minutes ticked on. A bird landed, then took off again. A gust of wind howled past the tracks.

And then, you dropped your school notebook.

You didn’t notice at first.. it had slid under the bench, papers loose and fluttering. He was already standing before you even reacted.

Boots crunched gravel.

He picked it up. His eyes scanned the first page. Doodles. Quotes. Tiny, careful handwriting.

He handed it to you.

“You dropped something,” he said. His voice was deep. Foreign. It had an edge, like a blade recently cleaned.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, Your hand brushing his as you took it.

“Why are you here?” he asked, not moving.