The 7:45 train rattled into the station, its silver body streaked with yesterday’s rain. Elena slipped inside with her coffee balanced in one hand and her sketchbook tucked under her arm. As always, she took the same seat: third row from the end, window side.
And as always, he was already there.
He sat across the aisle, two rows forward—dark coat, neat hair, reading glasses that made him look both serious and approachable. He wasn’t striking in the way magazine covers demand, but there was something about him that made Elena’s eyes drift, as though her gaze belonged to him before she even realized it.
