“Sir, my mommy’s crying in the bathroom.”

The CEO stepped in and did something no one expected.

The train station was buzzing with restless motion. Outside, the rain came in fine needles, soaking everything in a chill that clung to skin and bone. Inside, the waiting area hummed with suitcase wheels, overhead announcements, and the low murmur of people checking watches and sighing at delays.

“Attention passengers,” the speaker crackled. “Regional line 7 to Fairfield is delayed by approximately 45 minutes due to weather conditions. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Near the ticket counter, a little girl stood alone. She could not have been more than six years old. Her coat, clearly secondhand, clung damply to her thin frame. Brown curls stuck to her forehead in limp ringlets, and her small hands clutched a worn, plush bunny whose ears drooped like wet leaves.

The clerk behind the counter looked up, frowning. “Sweetheart, where’s your mom or dad?”

The girl swallowed hard, her lips trembling from the cold. Her voice came out no louder than a whisper. “Sir, my mommy’s crying in the bathroom. She said we can’t go home.”

The words didn’t sound rehearsed. They were raw and unsure, like a child trying to make sense of something she shouldn’t have to understand. The ticket clerk blinked, unsure of what to do. He glanced around for a supervisor.

That was when a man in a black suit, walking past with a coffee in hand, stopped. He had been heading toward the South Terminal, blending in despite his tailored appearance. His dark coat was still speckled with rain, collar turned up against the wind; a name badge wasn’t visible. Nothing about him said he belonged to the station staff, but he stepped forward anyway.

He crouched down slowly so he wouldn’t startle her. “Hi there,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

The girl sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “Sophie.”

He nodded. “Nice to meet you, Sophie. My name’s Callum.”

She looked up at him, hesitant but relieved that someone was finally listening. Her voice was still quiet. “Mommy’s name is Elara Hayes,” she said. “Maybe… maybe we’d have to sleep here tonight, but I don’t want her to be sad anymore.”

Callum’s eyes flicked toward the bathrooms. His mind quickly pieced together a picture no child should have to describe: a mother overwhelmed, out of options, quietly falling apart behind a locked door, while her daughter stood alone among strangers. This wasn’t a lost child; this was something else entirely.

He stood, looked at the ticket clerk. “Can you watch her for a moment?”

The clerk nodded, eyes wide.

Callum walked toward the restrooms. He stopped outside the women’s and hesitated—not out of embarrassment, but out of respect. Then he knocked, once, then again, gently.

“Excuse me,” he said, keeping his voice calm but clear. “My name is Callum. I believe your daughter Sophie is waiting outside. She’s worried about you. I just want to make sure you’re all right, and maybe help if I can.”

There was no answer at first. Then, after a few long seconds, the door creaked open. The woman standing behind it looked startled, but composed. Barely. Her blonde hair was pulled back hastily into a bun, now partially undone and damp from the rain. Her eyes were red. She wore a wrinkled button-down shirt and jeans darkened by water. In one hand, she clutched a fraying tote bag.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. We’re fine.”

Callum didn’t move closer. He didn’t try to peer past her or offer immediate pity. He just looked at her. Really looked. And what he saw wasn’t a woman falling apart. He saw someone holding herself together by force of will.

“No trouble,” he said softly. “Your daughter handled things very bravely. She just didn’t know what to do.”

The woman—Elara, he assumed—closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again, blinking back whatever emotion still threatened to spill over.

“I just needed a minute,” she said. “Just one minute to breathe.”

Callum nodded. And in that moment, something subtle shifted in him—not out of sympathy, but out of respect. Because here, in the fluorescent-lit hallway of a station packed with people too busy to care, stood a mother in soaked clothes who had walked into a bathroom not to give up, but just to cry. And sometimes, that was the strongest thing a person could do.

Callum stepped out of the restroom hallway with a heaviness in his chest he couldn’t quite explain. The woman behind that door wasn’t fragile, like he might have assumed. She wasn’t drowning, just exhausted from treading water for too long.

A few minutes later, she emerged. Elara Hayes. Her blonde hair, now slightly drier, was still messily pinned up. Her clothes clung to her in damp creases, and her eyes were red-rimmed, but steady. Her hand held Sophie’s tightly, like an anchor. She approached him with composure that seemed stitched together by sheer willpower.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry for causing a scene.”

Callum looked at her closely. The redness in her eyes hadn’t stolen the determination from them. She wasn’t panicked, just… worn.

“It’s not a problem,” he replied, his voice softer than usual. “But do you need help?”

Elara paused. There was the smallest flicker of something. Temptation, maybe. But it passed just as quickly. She shook her head.

“I’m not asking for anything. Just a place for my daughter to sit for a while. I’ll figure it out.”

Callum exhaled slowly. He didn’t know what answer he’d been expecting. But this—this quiet dignity—it unsettled him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Do you have any family nearby?” he asked gently. “Friends you can call?”

Elara’s expression didn’t waver, but her eyes lowered. “No, it’s just us. We live in another state. I came here for a job interview today.” Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “But it didn’t go well.”

He tilted his head. “Can I ask why?”

She hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. Her lips pressed together, her gaze flicking toward Sophie, who was now curled up on a waiting bench nearby, hugging her plush bunny close.

“Because I brought my daughter,” Elara admitted, her voice quiet but clear. “It was my fourth interview in two weeks. I didn’t have anyone to watch her, and I couldn’t leave her alone.”

She reached into her coat and pulled out a worn, faded wallet. Opening it, she revealed a few crumpled bills and coins—less than enough for a bus ticket, let alone a train ride across state lines.

“I borrowed money from a friend to get here,” she continued. “I thought… I really thought this one might work out. But after the interview, I checked my wallet and realized I don’t have enough left to get us both home.” Her fingers tightened around the wallet, then relaxed. “I went into the bathroom,” she added, “not to give up. I just needed a place to cry.”

For the first time in months, the final sentence dropped into the space between them like a stone.

Callum said nothing for a moment. He stood there, in his dry, expensive suit, feeling the weight of his position in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He had access to anything he needed—hotel rooms, cars, entire terminals—while this woman had nothing but pride holding her upright.

“I can help,” he said finally. “I could buy you a ticket, or at least find you and Sophie a warm place to stay tonight.”

Elara looked at him for a long moment. Her eyes didn’t well with tears; she didn’t clasp her hands in gratitude. She just smiled, a thin, weary smile edged with pride.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t accept money from strangers, even kind ones.” She looked down at her daughter again. “I’m trying to teach her that we don’t rely on pity, even when it’s well meant.”

Callum nodded slowly, letting the words settle. He respected that, deeply. Then a thought flickered.

“What if…” He began slowly, as if testing the idea aloud. “I told you there’s a temporary opening at the customer service desk here at the station? You wouldn’t need recent experience, just composure. The ability to handle questions, calm passengers. Think on your feet.” He met her gaze. “Would you be interested?”

Elara blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a dry, almost bitter sound. “I used to be the executive assistant to the VP of a global travel company,” she said, half smiling. “Now I can’t afford a train ticket.”

Callum didn’t smile back—not out of pity, but out of something more complex, something like admiration.

“Maybe,” he said, “this isn’t your ending. Maybe it’s just a transition. And sometimes, a train station isn’t where the journey stops.” He nodded toward the floor. “Sometimes, it’s where it starts.”

Elara looked at him again. Really looked. And for the first time that day, the dim light of the station caught something new in her eyes. Hope.

Elara started the very next morning.

Her new job wasn’t glamorous—manning the customer service desk near the main concourse of the station. She wore a borrowed staff vest over her wrinkled blouse and had her name scribbled on a temporary badge. Still, she showed up early, hair tied up, eyes alert.

Sophie sat quietly in the small staff break room just behind the service window, coloring with a box of worn crayons and humming to herself. She didn’t fuss. She didn’t whine. She seemed to understand that this, too, was part of something important.

From the beginning, Elara worked with quiet focus. She directed lost tourists with gentle clarity, smoothed over tense complaints with the calm of someone who’d handled real emergencies. When a train was canceled due to a power issue, it wasn’t the supervisor who stepped in. It was Elara who calmly rerouted passengers, handed out refund forms, and made sure a family with small kids found warm seats to wait out the delay.

The other employees took notice.

“She’s new?” one conductor asked a colleague, after watching her manage a crowd.

“She’s temporary,” the colleague replied. “But maybe not for long.”

Unbeknownst to Elara, Callum had been observing her quietly over the course of several days. He didn’t hover or interfere. He simply watched, from the upper level, from behind a column, from the small digital camera feeds he occasionally skimmed when alone in his office.

What struck him wasn’t just her efficiency. It was her kindness. The way she crouched down to eye level with elderly passengers, the way she explained platform changes to those who didn’t speak English without a trace of frustration, the way her smile—worn but honest—put people at ease.

It wasn’t just service. It was care.

One afternoon, during a lull, Callum walked past the break room. Sophie sat alone at the tiny table with her coloring book and a juice box. She looked up when she saw him and beamed.

“Hi, Uncle Callum.”

He smiled. Slightly surprised she remembered his name. “Hey there, Sophie. You doing okay?”…

She nodded, swinging her feet under the chair. Then, after a pause, she asked, “Do people sleep at train stations forever?”

The question caught him off guard. He knelt beside her chair. “Why do you ask?”

She looked toward the window, where her mother was still at the desk, assisting a man with a large suitcase. “Because Mommy said we might have to sleep here that night, if you didn’t come. And there are other people. I saw a man sleeping on the bench yesterday.”

Callum’s throat tightened. He cleared it gently, then said, “Not if they meet the right people.”

Sophie studied his face, then looked down at her drawing—a picture of three people standing in front of the station: a tall man, a blonde woman, and a girl with curly hair. She smiled, satisfied, and went back to coloring.

Callum stood slowly. He glanced back through the glass at Elara, still at work—calm, capable, holding the line not just for the station, but for her own life. This wasn’t charity. She didn’t need rescuing. What she needed, what she deserved, was a chance to stand again.

And that, Callum realized, was exactly what she was doing.

By the second week of work, Elara had already become a familiar presence at the station. The early winter chill had begun to bite, seeping into every crack in the old walls. But inside the terminal, warmth bloomed in quiet places—like in the way Elara greeted passengers, or how Sophie’s little feet pattered behind the help desk as she carried coloring sheets to the break room.

Elara moved with practiced confidence now. She handled lost luggage cases, guided confused tourists in multiple languages, and had even memorized the timing quirks of the busiest commuter lines. Her co-workers began calling her “the girl with the bright smile,” and Sophie was affectionately dubbed “the little citizen of the station.”

One afternoon, Sophie wandered into the staff hallway and taped a crayon drawing to the bulletin board. It showed three stick figures: one tall man in a suit, one blonde-haired woman, and one small girl with bouncy curls. They stood beneath a large clock, next to the words: Sometimes home is where the waiting room feels warm.

The picture stayed there for days. No one touched it. Callum passed by once, paused, and smiled faintly without saying a word.

It was on a particularly chaotic Thursday that everything changed.

A major train delay had rippled through the schedule, throwing off several routes and flooding the concourse with irritated passengers. Lines snaked through the lobby, the air thick with frustration and the scent of damp coats. Elara was stationed at the main help desk, answering back-to-back questions, printing revised itineraries, and guiding elderly couples to warmer seating. She remained calm, composed, her tone patient even as tempers flared.

In the middle of that chaos, just as she leaned down to pick up a fallen clipboard, her eye caught a flash of brown leather under one of the benches.

She reached for it: an expensive-looking wallet, thick and heavy in her hand. She opened it quickly to check for ID. Inside, she found several crisp $100 bills—easily $2,000—a business card, two credit cards, and a New York State ID for Martin Collins, along with a first-class train ticket.

There were no cameras pointing directly at her. No one nearby seemed to have noticed. She could have slipped it into her bag and walked away. No one would know.

But Elara didn’t hesitate. She closed the wallet, stood up, and walked directly to the announcement desk.

A few minutes later, the station’s PA system echoed through the busy halls. “If any passenger named Martin Collins has misplaced a brown leather wallet, please proceed to the main information desk. A staff member has secured it.”

It wasn’t long before a middle-aged man in a designer coat came rushing up to the counter. His forehead was creased with worry, hands shaking slightly. When Elara handed over the wallet, he opened it immediately, checking the contents. Nothing missing.

He looked up at her, blinking. “You’re the one who found this?”

She nodded.

“You didn’t take anything? Not even the cash?”

She gave a small smile. “I’m teaching my daughter that doing the right thing isn’t always the easy thing. But it’s still the right thing.”

He looked at her more closely now. “Do you know who I am?”

She shook her head.

“I’m one of the board members of this rail company. I’m going to personally recommend your name to the executive team.”

But Elara held up a hand, kind but firm. “That’s kind of you, but unnecessary. I’m just grateful to have this job. I just want to work hard, go home safely with my daughter, and sleep well at night.”

He nodded slowly. “You’ll go far. Even if you don’t want credit, you deserve it.”

From the mezzanine above, Callum had been watching the entire exchange. He had not planned to stop, but something made him stay just long enough to witness the choice Elara made when no one was looking. He said nothing at the time, but something in his expression shifted as he turned away. For the first time, he didn’t just admire her strength. He respected her character—deeply, quietly, and fully….

Because Elara wasn’t just honest when people were watching. She was honorable when no one was.

The rain hadn’t let up since morning. It pattered steadily against the high windows of the station, muffling the sound of announcements, and making the warm interior feel more like a shelter than a stopover.

That afternoon, the company hosted a small internal event—a roundtable session to gather ideas from frontline employees on how to improve the customer experience. It was Callum’s initiative, part of a quiet shift in leadership he’d begun after seeing the station through Elara’s eyes. Though he was the CEO, he remained anonymous in the meeting, sitting in the back, blending into the group of mid-level managers.

Elara had been invited to join at the last minute. She took a seat near the center, surrounded by longtime employees, many of whom still didn’t quite know her story. But she didn’t hesitate when it came time to speak.

She cleared her throat gently and began. “I think the wheelchair access ramp near Platform 4 could be improved. It’s too steep for someone without assistance.”

A few heads nodded.

She continued. “Also, the signage for the northbound trains isn’t clear enough. I’ve seen tourists miss their connections because they couldn’t tell which track was which.”

More nods. A few people jotted notes.

“And one more thing,” she added, her voice warming. “Sometimes, people wait for hours when trains are delayed, especially families. Maybe we could set up a little reading corner or quiet area—somewhere soft, especially for the little ones.”

Silence. Then soft murmurs of agreement. No theatrics. Just common sense, spoken with clarity and compassion.

Callum, sitting in the back, didn’t move. But he watched.

After the meeting, as the crowd dispersed, he quietly approached her near the vending machines. “You’ve thought a lot about this station,” he said.

Elara turned, a bit surprised to see him there. “I spend most of my days here now,” she said lightly.

He hesitated, then asked the question that had been circling in his mind since her first day. “Where did you study management?”

Elara smiled faintly. “The school of life. But, officially, I was the assistant VP of operations at a travel agency chain. Pretty big one.”

Callum raised his eyebrows.

She paused, then added, “I left when I got pregnant.”

His voice softened. “They didn’t support you?”

Her smile faded. “No one did,” she said simply. “I wasn’t married. My partner… left. And I didn’t want to terminate the pregnancy. That decision cost me my job. My apartment. Friends I thought I had.” She looked away for a second, eyes fixed on the streaks of rain down the glass. “But I chose Sophie. I chose her, even when it meant starting over from zero.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. Just honesty. “I worked temp jobs. Moved town to town. Carried her in my arms during interviews, hoping someone would see me as more than a liability.” She exhaled slowly. “It’s been a long road.”

Callum didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, the low rumble of a passing train filling the silence between them.

When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted. “Most people would have given up.”

Elara shook her head. “No, they just… find a way to survive.”

He looked at her now, not as someone who needed help, but as someone who had given help even when she had none to spare.

“You didn’t just survive,” he said quietly. “You carried another life through it.”

For the first time, Elara looked like she might say something vulnerable, but she only smiled and shrugged. “I didn’t have armor. So I grew thick skin.”

They stood in silence again. Two people from entirely different worlds, but in that moment, perfectly aligned. Not pity. Not romance. Just deep, unspoken respect. And for Callum, it was the moment he stopped seeing Elara as a temporary employee. He started seeing her for who she truly was.

A fighter without a sword. A leader without a title. A mother who never backed down…

December arrived, bringing with it the first dusting of snow and a hush that softened even the busiest corners of the train station. Garlands lined the walls. Twinkling fairy lights wrapped around stair railings. And in the center of the main concourse stood a modest Christmas tree. Small, a little crooked, but glowing with ornaments made by the staff’s children.

Sophie loved it. She would tug Elara’s hand every morning to stop and wave at the tree before heading into the staff lounge with her coloring books. The employees had started calling her “the little light of the station.”

One afternoon, just two weeks before Christmas, a kind-faced older attendant gifted Sophie a new box of crayons—pastel tones and glitter hues. Sophie beamed.

“Thank you. I’m going to draw something special.”

She sat cross-legged on the lounge floor, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as she carefully wrote a letter—not to her mom this time, or to Callum, but to Santa. When she was done, she folded the page gently and slipped it between her sketchbook pages.

She didn’t know that later that night, as Callum stayed behind to help organize the station lounge for a staff breakfast, he would pick up her forgotten sketchbook to place it in her cubby, and the letter would fall out.

He knelt, curious, and read it in silence.

Dear Santa, this year I don’t want a doll or a bike. I want someone who makes mommy smile, even when the train is late and the sky is cold. Love, Sophie.

Callum stood there for a long moment. He didn’t smile, he didn’t speak, but he carefully folded the note back up and slid it into his inner jacket pocket. Not for show, not to tell Elara—just to keep. Because somehow the words of a six-year-old made the entire station feel warmer.

A few days later, the wind picked up. The sky was steel gray, streaked with early flakes of snow, and passengers bustled through the concourse with scarves tight and tempers short.

Elara sat alone on one of the benches near Platform 3, her coat too thin, a paper cup of tea growing cold in her hands. She had just received another rejection email, the third this week. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and she pressed the warm cup to her cheek as if willing it to thaw the weight behind her eyes.

She did not notice Callum approach until a new cup of tea was gently placed beside hers. Steam rose from it. It was fresh, hot.

She looked up. Callum stood there in his usual dark coat: no words, no clipboard, no agenda. He didn’t sit. He didn’t ask. He simply offered the drink and said quietly, “I can’t change your past, but I can be here, in your present, if that means anything.”

Elara blinked. She didn’t thank him. She didn’t put on a polite smile. She just nodded once, then looked away again. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t hide the redness in her eyes. She didn’t cover the exhaustion or the quiet, aching disappointment. And for the first time, she didn’t feel ashamed of it.

Callum remained beside her, watching trains come and go in the distance. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It felt like the station itself had paused for just a second to let something settle gently between them. Not a grand gesture, not a rescue—just kindness. Quiet, steady, and real.

And in the pocket of his coat, Sophie’s letter warmed slightly against his chest.

One week before Christmas, the station buzzed with a quiet joy. The annual winter appreciation event was modest. No fancy gala or corporate fireworks, just a heartfelt gathering to honor both employees and passengers who had brought light to the long winter months.

Elara arrived early, bundled in a secondhand coat layered over her station-issued uniform. Sophie clutched her hand, eyes gleaming at the decorated tables full of cookies, cocoa, and handmade ornaments. Elara didn’t expect anything. She had only been working temporarily, after all. But as she entered the staff hallway, she noticed the bulletin board had changed…

The usual train schedules and safety flyers were still there, but now surrounded by colorful holiday cards—cards addressed to her.

Thank you, Miss Elara. I would have missed my grandson’s wedding if you hadn’t helped me find my platform in time. — M. Levinson, 82.

To the kind lady at the info desk. I panicked when I lost my wallet. You told me to breathe. That meant more than you’ll ever know. — Andrew Kay, single dad.

You reminded me that kindness still exists. Thank you for helping me re-book my ticket when I was alone and scared. — G. Min, international student.

Elara touched the edges of each card gently, as if afraid they’d disappear. Sophie tugged at her sleeve.

“Look, Mommy, that’s your name on all of them.”

“I know,” Elara whispered, her voice thick. She took the cards and pinned them neatly to the corkboard, one by one—not for show, just to remind herself that she hadn’t just been surviving. She’d been showing up, making a difference.

As she stepped back, an older woman with a cane approached her from the waiting area. Her scarf was knit in bold colors, and her smile was soft.

“You may not remember me,” the woman said, “but your daughter gave me a tissue last week when I was crying.”

Elara blinked. “I… I didn’t know.”

The woman leaned in slightly. “She said, ‘My mommy says crying doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re trying.’ That little girl lit up my entire afternoon.” She looked over at Sophie now, who was giggling with a conductor and trying to hang a paper snowflake on a garland. “She’s a light,” the woman added, eyes crinkling. “You both are.”

In the main terminal, a temporary stage had been set up for the event’s closing remarks. Callum stood behind the scenes, suit crisp, tie slightly loosened. He had been nominated by the national press as one of the year’s most “human-centered CEOs”—a title he never asked for, and one he was prepared to politely decline.

But instead of giving the speech himself, he handed the note cards to someone else.

“Elara,” he said gently. “I think this should be yours.”

Her eyes widened. “Me? Why?”

“Because this station is warmer because of you. People feel seen because of you. That’s worth sharing.”

Elara hesitated. Then she took a breath, smoothed her sleeves, and walked up the small wooden steps. The microphone squeaked slightly as she stepped into the warm glow of the stage lights. She looked out, not just at employees, but at passengers, regulars, and staff from all corners of the station

Then she spoke—not loudly, not perfectly, but honestly.

“I used to think a train station was just a place people pass through. A stop, a delay, sometimes an ending. But lately, I’ve realized something else.” She paused. “Sometimes, a station is where you rest. Where you breathe. Where you begin again. And maybe, if you’re lucky, it becomes a place that feels a little like home.”

The room was silent for a moment. Then came applause—warm, real, from every direction.

In the back of the room, Callum watched her, his expression unreadable to most. But Sophie saw it. She ran up and slipped her hand into his.

“She was really scared, you know,” Sophie whispered. “But not anymore.”

Callum nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off Elara. “She doesn’t have to be,” he said. “Not anymore.”

The winter fair transformed the station into something close to magic. Garlands draped along the ticket counters. Warm lights blinked above the platforms. The smell of cinnamon and hot cocoa swirled between the echoes of announcements.

Elara stood near the photo booth set up by track three, bundled in a deep blue coat—new, but not store-bought. A handwritten tag inside read: To Elara, from all of us. You make this place better. — Team Station North.

She ran her hand over the sleeve with quiet reverence. It had been years since anyone gave her something without her having to earn it.

Sophie came skipping over, wearing a red velvet dress and a pair of felt antlers on her head. She clutched a small white envelope against her chest.

“Is Callum here?” she asked, eyes bright with mischief.

Elara scanned the crowd, and there he was, waiting by the snow-dusted platform—no suit today, just a thick knit scarf and his usual calm presence. Somehow, still looking slightly out of place among the streamers and cardboard reindeer…

Sophie ran up to him without hesitation.

“I have something for you.”

Callum crouched, smiling. “Is it another drawing?”

“Even better.” She handed him the envelope.

He opened it carefully. Inside was a piece of folded construction paper. In blue marker, in a child’s careful scrawl, it read: Dear Santa, I think I already found the gift. Can I keep it forever? Love, Sophie.

Callum blinked. For a man who ran entire railway networks, who made billion-dollar decisions with his signature alone, he found himself completely unprepared. He looked up. Elara stood a few feet away, watching. She didn’t speak, didn’t rush forward, just gave the smallest, quietest nod.

And Callum understood.

There was no confession, no dramatic kiss under falling snow—just a silent agreement that something had shifted and it didn’t need to be named. He reached out and took Elara’s hand. No crowd noticed, no camera clicked, but it was the most important gesture he’d made all year.

Sophie beamed. “See? Told you Santa reads every letter.”

Later that evening, the three of them sat on a bench by the far end of the station. It was quieter there, the kind of quiet that felt earned. Sophie curled up beside her mother, head resting gently on Elara’s lap. Her tiny hand stayed curled around Callum’s, like it belonged there.

Above them, the yellow station lights bathed everything in soft gold. Outside, the wind picked up, but it no longer felt cold.

A train rolled in. They didn’t get up, because for the first time in a very long time, none of them were looking for the next stop. They were already where they were meant to be.