Train Fellow 2 — [portable]

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.

He turned. Held one out.

“You take the window side,” he said. “Last time, I noticed you like to watch the river bend at Mile 14.” train fellow 2

And that’s when I understood: a train fellow isn’t a stranger forever. Sometimes, a second crossing turns him into a companion. Not by plan. By mileage. By the slow, diesel-scented accumulation of small, shared silences finally breaking open. 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

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.