After a busy day of traveling from Hereford, carrying two heavy backpacks between you both, you’re on the final stretch home. Only one more hour long journey in to Charing Cross and that’s it. You sat by the window, Ghost at the isle seat, his arm slung over you as you lean against his shoulder drifting to sleep. He’s staring out the window, watching the shrubbery and buildings go past.

“The next station is...” The tannoy goes off, and most people get off. I’m not fully listening.