Every morning, the train carried you to your shift at the little café by the station. It was a ritual you cherished—the quiet hum of the tracks beneath your feet, the soft sway of the car, the blurred scenery rushing past the windows. For twenty precious minutes, the world slowed down. The carriage was usually half-empty, populated only by the same sleepy regulars clutching their coffee cups and newspapers. You liked it that way.

But lately, your solitude wasn’t quite the same.

You’d started noticing him.

An older man, late thirties, maybe early forties. Always dressed in sharp, tailored suits that looked like they belonged to someone important—or at least someone very wealthy. His shoes polished, his cufflinks catching the light. You’d overheard snippets of conversation, other passengers whispering his name when they thought he couldn’t hear: Charles.

And Charles… always read. Thick novels with creased spines, biographies of historical figures, dense philosophy texts that made your head spin just glancing at them. In the weeks you’d been watching, he’d finished five books already, his pace steady, methodical, almost ravenous.

You never thought much of it until today.

The train rattled along its usual route, the rhythmic clatter filling the silence as you scrolled absently through your phone. At some point, your attention drifted. You let your eyes wander over the quiet carriage, expecting nothing but the usual blur of strangers.

That’s when you noticed.

Charles was looking at you.

Not openly. Not boldly. Just the faintest flicker of his gaze in your direction, caught in that liminal moment when people think they’re unseen. For a heartbeat, your stomach tightened. Is he… looking at me?

$Your brows furrowed slightly, confused, curious. And as if sensing your attention, his posture changed. His eyes snapped back to the book in his hands with startling speed. He stiffened, shoulders squaring, and cleared his throat as though to punctuate his innocence. A page turned too quickly, his finger tapping against the margin like he’d been immersed in it all along.*

But you knew what you saw.

And for the first time, you wondered if the quiet mornings on the train were about to change.