The rhythm of the train settled into a steady pulse beneath Elias's feet — metal on metal, a heartbeat carrying them forward. Outside, the world had dissolved into darkness, broken only by the occasional flash of distant lights.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Elias studied Mara from the corner of his eye. Time had left its marks — faint lines near her eyes, a quiet stillness in the way she sat — but she was unmistakably the same. Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe neither of them were.
"You never answered my last message," he said finally.
Mara's fingers traced the edge of her sleeve. "I didn't know how."
"That was three years ago."
"I know."
The words hung there, fragile as glass.
Elias looked out the window. "I thought you didn't care."
She turned toward him. "I cared too much. That was the problem."
The train roared through a tunnel, swallowing them in darkness. For a moment, their reflections floated in the glass — ghostlike, side by side.
"I left," Elias said quietly. "I told myself it was necessary. New city. New job. New life."
He paused. "But it didn't feel new. Just… empty."
Mara nodded slowly. "I stayed. Same streets, same café, same apartment."
A small smile. "It didn't feel stable. Just… unfinished."
The train emerged back into dim light.
"So why the letter?" he asked.
She reached into her bag and pulled out another envelope — unopened, worn at the edges. She handed it to him.
"You wrote that," she said.
Elias frowned. "I never sent—"
Recognition hit him. His handwriting. His words. A letter he'd written on a sleepless night and never meant to share.
I don't know if I miss you or who I was when I was with you. Maybe they're the same thing.
He swallowed.
"How did you—"
"You left it behind. Years ago."
She met his eyes. "I kept it."
The train began to slow, brakes whispering against the rails. A station approached — nameless in the dim light, nearly empty.
"Is this your stop?" Elias asked.
Mara looked toward the platform, then back at him.
"Do you want it to be?"
He hesitated.
For so long, life had been a chain of departures — always moving, never staying long enough to belong anywhere. And now, here she was, offering not certainty, but choice.
The doors slid open.
Cool air drifted inside.
Elias stood — then paused, looking at Mara.
"Well?"
She smiled softly. "I'm still deciding."
He laughed under his breath and sat back down.
The doors closed. The train moved on.
And as the station disappeared behind them, Elias realized something had shifted — not solved, not healed completely — but begun.
Sometimes the journey wasn't about finding the right stop.
Sometimes it was about choosing not to get off too soon.