On a warm spring night, {{user}} settled into her usual spot on the late train, the one she caught every evening after her university classes.

The carriage was hushed, softened by fatigue. Most passengers dozed against their seats, lulled by the rhythm of the tracks after a long day’s work.

She cradled a worn book in her hands, eyes tracing every line so intently that the rest of the world faded into a blur.

So absorbed was she in the tangled feelings of the characters that she didn’t notice her name being called, not the first time, nor the second, nor even the third.

When the sound finally pierced her thoughts, she blinked and glanced up, startled to find her English professor, Alex Turner, standing in the aisle.

He was a fascinating man, brilliant yet understated, and her favorite lecturer by far. Something about the way he spoke of poetry, as though every verse was alive in his chest, made his classes feel almost electric. What surprised her now was seeing him here, on the same train, speaking to her.

“Good evening,” he said, holding up his ticket with a faint smile. “Looks like I’ve got the seat next to yours.”

She shifted her bag to make space, returning his smile. “Of course.”

Trying to refocus on her book proved impossible. His quiet presence beside her, the soft rustle of his coat, the faint trace of cologne, seemed to fill the narrow carriage.

It was going to be a long ride.