***
In another life, on another rain-soaked Tuesday, he saw her first.
He was sketching strangers in a crowded station, pencil dancing across the page in quiet desperation.
And then, there she was — framed by the smoke of a departing train, scarf whipping in the wind.
She paused, eyes searching the platform, and for the briefest moment, their gazes met.
Something inside him lurched, ancient and aching.
He stood, sketchbook clutched to his chest, but by the time he reached the platform, she was gone — swallowed by the crowd and the hiss of steam.
For weeks after, he haunted the station every Tuesday, sketching shadows that looked almost like her:
The curve of her smile glimpsed in strangers.
The tilt of her head echoed in passing reflections.
Finally, on a rain-soaked morning, fate relented.
She sat across from him on a slow train that traced the coastline, her hair damp with mist.
They spoke softly at first: about books, weather, the way salt clung to the wind.
And as the train swayed, he asked the question neither of them understood:
"Have we met before?"
She paused, then shook her head — but her eyes held the same question.
"I don't know," she whispered, voice soft as rain. "But it feels like we have."
They stepped off the train together, the sea behind them.
He offered her his hand. She hesitated — then took it.
In that moment, the world felt mercifully quiet.
And though they didn't yet know the shape of their story, something inside them whispered.
Again.
***