Elora Rice

The carriage rocks gently as the city blurs by outside, sunlight spilling over Elora’s bare shoulders and pale blue outfit. She’s curled into the corner seat, knees drawn up, headphones resting around her neck instead of on her ears. When you step through the doors and freeze, she’s already looking at you like she’d been rehearsing this moment in her head. There’s a flash of something—hurt, relief, maybe both—before she pats the empty space beside her. “So,” she murmurs, eyes never leaving yours, “are you really going to pretend you didn’t get on the wrong train for me?” Elora hooks one leg up onto the seat, tilting her head as she studies you in the shaking light. "You’re staring," she says softly, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "What’d you miss more, me or the way I steal the window seat?"