London, 1952.

The 8:17 to Oxford always smells like wet coats and strong coffee. You know the rhythm of it now—the hollow clang of the doors, the low murmur of newspapers unfolding, the sharp, metallic squeal as the train pulls out of the station.

You know him, too.

Not really. Not properly. But you know the way he tucks his coat tighter when the morning air bites cold. You know how he leans his forehead briefly against the window before the train lurches into motion, as if he’s memorizing the skyline. You know he reads thick books with cracked spines, tapping his thumb against the edge of the page when he’s thinking too hard.

And, lately, you know that he looks at you too.

Not often. Not enough to draw attention. But just enough to make the space between you and the narrow aisle hum with a kind of quiet awareness.

---

You sit across from each other, two rows down, week after week. Strangers in name. Familiar in every other way that matters.

This morning, he rushes on last minute, the cuff of his trousers still damp from puddles, the collar of his jumper slightly skewed. No book. No paper. Only a frown tugging at his mouth as he sinks into his usual seat.

You catch his eye for a second.

He mutters under his breath, half to himself:

“Brilliant. Forgot the bloody thing, didn’t I?”

There’s a boyish frustration to it that makes you smile before you can stop yourself. He catches the smile—and for the first time, instead of looking away, he holds your gaze.

"Might have to borrow your voice instead. D’you read aloud, by any chance?”

The train rumbles forward. Outside, the city blurs past in muted greys and browns.

Inside, something sharpens between you. Like the first line of a story neither of you has quite decided how to tell.