The train sighed into motion. A little town platform blinked awake. A woman with silver hair and a red shawl boarded, holding a battered leather case. She sat opposite Arjun and watched him with warm, unhurried eyes, as if she had been waiting for him all her life.

Arjun smiled, because what else do you say to a stranger who names your private ache? “Maybe I misplaced it.”

“To make it,” he said. The words tasted of the city—fast, hungry, a little ashamed.