The train at night is always quieter than during the day. I sat by the window, watching a faint reflection of myself layered over the dark glass. There were only a few people in the carriage—some looking down at their phones, others leaning back with their eyes closed. The white lights above made everything feel slightly blurred. Outside, the city passed by in fragments, like pieces of a scene cut apart. It had been a long time since I last took this line. I used to ride it every day, from school to home, at the same hour, like a piece of music stuck on repeat. Back then, I thought it would never end. I even felt tired of it sometimes. But now, sitting here again, all that’s left is a kind of quiet emptiness I can’t quite describe. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn’t take it out right away. It probably wasn’t anything important. Since I moved out, fewer and fewer people had reason to contact me. Even my message threads seemed to stop on certain days, as if time had quietly decided to pause them. Some relationships don’t really end. They just fade. The train stopped at the next station. When the doors opened, a wave of cold air slipped inside. I instinctively curled my fingers slightly, and that’s when I noticed someone stepping in. She paused near the door, glancing around briefly before taking the seat across from me. Her hair looked slightly messy, like it had been caught in the wind. We didn’t make eye contact. As the train started moving again, she took out a piece of paper from her bag—a ticket, folded many times over. I wasn’t sure why I noticed it, maybe because she stared at it for a long while. There was something about the way she looked at it—quiet, focused—that made it hard to ignore. The carriage remained still, filled only with the faint rhythm of the tracks. After a while, she folded the paper again and slipped it back into her bag, letting out a soft sigh. It was so quiet that I might have missed it if I weren’t sitting nearby. For some reason, it reminded me of a night a long time ago. Back then, I used to sit on this same train, across from someone who would talk endlessly. She would mention small, ordinary things—how the bread she bought tasted better than expected, or how the teacher said something oddly funny in class. I can’t remember the details anymore. Only the feeling remains. Like something slowly erased by time. The train passed through a stretch without streetlights, and the window suddenly turned dark. I could see my reflection more clearly now, overlapping briefly with hers before separating again. It felt strange for a moment. As if we had both appeared in each other’s world for just a short while, only to leave again. The next station was approaching. When the announcement played, she stood up. I did the same—I was getting off here too. When the doors opened, we stepped out almost at the same time. The air on the platform was colder. She walked ahead of me, her pace unhurried. I kept a small distance between us, not intentionally closer, not intentionally further. The stairs leading out were longer than I remembered. Halfway up, she suddenly stopped, as if searching for something. I slowed down as well. She pulled out the same piece of paper from her bag, glanced at it, and then let out a faint smile. It wasn’t directed at anyone. It felt more like something she gave to herself. I didn’t say anything. She folded the paper again and continued walking. When we stepped out of the station, the air carried a slight trace of moisture. Streetlights lined the road, casting a soft glow that made everything look clearer than before. She turned left. I turned right. No intersection. After a few steps, I found myself looking back. Her figure was already fading into the corner, leaving only a vague outline. I paused for a moment, then kept walking. For some reason, that brief stretch of walking together made things feel a little less empty. As if, for a short while, someone had been on the same track as me. Even if only for a moment. A breeze drifted down the street. I slipped my hands into my coat pockets and continued forward. The road stretched ahead, long as always. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite as difficult to walk. Maybe tomorrow will be the same. But maybe… I can try again.