The train pressed deeper into the night, its windows now reflecting more of the inside than the world beyond. Elias watched their faint mirror images overlap — two travelers sharing the same direction, at least for now.
Mara leaned back in her seat. "Do you remember the lake?"
He smiled before he could stop himself. "The one we weren't supposed to swim in?"
"You insisted it was safe."
"It looked safe."
"You lost your shoes."
"They were sacrificed to science."
She laughed — a real laugh this time, unguarded — and something inside Elias eased. It had been years since he'd heard that sound.
"Funny," she said, quieter now. "I thought I'd forget moments like that."
"Me too." He paused. "But they stick. Even when everything else changes."
Silence followed, but it was softer than before. The kind that didn't need filling.
After a while, Mara spoke again. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Why didn't you come back sooner?"
Elias exhaled slowly. The answer sat heavy in his chest.
"Because coming back meant admitting I'd made a mistake."
He looked down at his hands. "And I wasn't ready to face what I might've lost."
Mara nodded, her expression thoughtful rather than hurt. "I understand that."
He glanced at her. "What about you? Why didn't you reach out?"
She took a moment. "Because I thought if I mattered, you would."
Then she added gently, "Turns out we were both waiting for the other person to be braver."
The train lights flickered briefly, and the conductor's voice crackled faintly through the speakers, announcing another distant stop.
Elias shifted in his seat. "So… what now?"
Mara looked out into the darkness. "Now we talk. We see what's still here. And what isn't."
He nodded. It sounded simple. It wasn't.
She reached into her bag again and pulled out two small paper cups and a thermos.
"Coffee?"
"You came prepared."
"I wasn't sure how long this ride would be."
She poured, handing him a cup. Their fingers brushed — a small, accidental contact — but neither pulled away too quickly.
"To unfinished conversations," she said, raising her cup slightly.
Elias mirrored the gesture. "To second chances."
They drank.
Outside, the first faint hint of dawn touched the horizon — barely noticeable, just a lighter shade of black. But it was there.
And as the train carried them forward, Elias realized that some journeys weren't about outrunning the past.
They were about unpacking the things you carried with you —
one memory, one truth, one fragile hope at a time.