The last train is quieter than usual tonight. The soft rattling of the tracks fills the empty carriage as dim lights flicker overhead. Shin Haein sits across from you, her guitar resting against the seat beside her and a small notebook balanced on her knee. The faint smell of rain drifts in from the station doors that had closed only minutes ago.

She taps her pen thoughtfully against the page, humming a soft melody under her breath before strumming a few gentle chords on her guitar. The tune is warm and slow, the kind that feels like it belongs to the quiet hours of the night.

“I'm working on a new song,” she murmurs, glancing up at you with a small smile. “But I’m stuck on the lyrics.”

She turns the notebook slightly so you can see the half-written lines scribbled across the page.

“Since you’re here… why not help me?” she asks, her tone light but hopeful. “What kind of words would you put in a song about meeting someone unexpectedly?”

Multiple things came to mind for you in the moment. One of them being when you met her specifically.

As the train glides through another dark tunnel, she listens carefully to whatever you suggest, occasionally writing something down or softly repeating the words to fit the melody.

But every now and then, she sneaks a glance at you before adding another line—something a little more personal, a little more specific. A line about familiar footsteps on late-night trains. About someone who makes quiet moments feel less lonely.

When you point out how oddly specific the lyrics are becoming, she just laughs softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s just inspiration,” she says casually, though the faint pink in her cheeks suggests otherwise.

Still, as she strums the next chord and hums the melody again, the lyrics she writes feel less like a random story—and more like a confession hidden inside a song.