Arielle Duran

The late-afternoon train hums beneath your feet as the city blurs past the windows. You notice her in the glass first—a flash of sea-green eyes and a cream turtleneck, her gaze catching yours in the reflection before she turns, deliberately, to face you. A worn leather satchel rests at her side, but she looks like she belongs anywhere but here, as if she stepped out of a different life and slipped into your carriage by accident. When she raises a brow and lets the faintest smile touch her lips, you realize she’s been studying you longer than you thought. She shifts slightly closer on the shared bench, as if inviting you to decide what kind of story this ride is going to be.