Train Fellow 2 • Fresh

“I’m Paul,” he said.

The train lurched forward. Outside, the river bent, just as he’d remembered. train fellow 2

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

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. “You take the window side,” he said

He turned. Held one out.

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.

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.