Henry boarded the train out of habit. Ever since Margaret passed, his world had shrunk to coffee at the same café and reading the same old books. But today was different. He had no destination in mind—just a ticket and the hope of something new.
He settled by the window, watching the countryside blur past. “First time traveling alone?” a voice asked.
He turned. The woman beside him had kind eyes and a knowing smile. “Not exactly,” he said, but she saw through him.
Her name was Claire, and like him, she carried an invisible weight—grief, memories, longing. As the train wound through valleys and across bridges, their conversation shifted from polite pleasantries to stories of love and loss, laughter and regret.
For the first time in years, Henry felt seen. He didn’t just exist; he was alive.
By the time they reached the final station, something had shifted. Claire gathered her things and hesitated. “Where are you heading next?”
Henry looked at her, then at the endless possibilities ahead. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
She smiled. “Well, how about a cup of coffee before we decide?”
And just like that, the train ride ended, but the journey was only beginning.