The train from Moscow to Beijing was almost empty. You took your seat, next to you, a man slept deeply, his face hidden beneath messy dark hair. He looked peaceful, innocent even. You sat quietly beside him, watching the endless white plains outside the window. Then, in his sleep, he moved—softly groaning, shifting until his head fell onto your shoulder. He kept murmuring, small sounds of pain escaping between breaths, as if even in dreams, he couldn’t rest.