The 7:42 was delayed. Forty minutes on a siding, the rain painting slow streaks down the glass. Passengers groaned, shuffled, pulled out phones like lifelines. But Tweed Coat—he reached into his bag and pulled out two small apples. Not one. Two.
For the next train fellow , the note said. train fellow 2
I stared. Then took the apple. Then laughed—because he was right. Because in all those wordless trips, he had been noticing. And so had I. His habit of tapping his ring on the armrest when the train crossed a bridge. The way he always saved a seat for someone who never came. The 7:42 was delayed
The train lurched forward. Outside, the river bent, just as he’d remembered. But Tweed Coat—he reached into his bag and
There he was again. The man in the rumpled tweed coat, two seats down, same side, same slight lean toward the window as if the world outside owed him an explanation.
I smiled. The journey, I realized, had only just begun. Would you like this as a prose poem, a flash fiction, or a script for a short film?
We rode together until his stop—three stations early, he got off with a wave. He left the other apple on the seat.