Chapter 1

The train is packed, as always. A sea of faces, blank and tired, bodies swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. The air is thick with the scent of wet wool and fading perfume, the sky outside a dull, featureless grey. It is autumn, and the cold has begun to settle into the bones of the city.

I don’t know why I notice her at first. Maybe it’s the way she stands, not hunched into herself like everyone else, but open, present.

Maybe it’s the way she grips the pole, fingers curled delicately. Or maybe it’s simply that, in a crowd of withdrawn faces, she is the only one who smiles.

It’s not at me. Not really. Just a small, warm thing given to no one in particular, a quiet defiance against the dreariness of the morning commute. But it stays with me.

She is pretty, in an unassuming way. Not striking or ostentatious, but there is something in the quiet symmetry of her features, the softness in the way she exists within the space.

There is something about her that doesn’t belong here, not in this weary procession of anonymous souls. While the rest of us are dulled by routine, moving through the morning like figures cut from stone, she moves with a quiet grace, a fluidity that speaks of someone untouched by the weight of monotony.

She is not in a rush, not burdened by the stiffness that comes with bracing against the cold. She simply exists, with a stillness that draws my attention without meaning to.

The train jolts, and she sways slightly, adjusting her grip. The movement makes me notice more—how her coat folds around her, how her scarf is wrapped high against the chill. The knit fabric presses against the fullness of her cheeks, and for a moment, I wonder if it is as soft as it looks. There’s something inherently comforting about her presence, like the glow of lamplight against the evening dark.

A gust of wind howls through the opening doors at the next station, sending a shiver through the packed carriage. She huddles into herself for a brief moment, drawing the scarf tighter, but then she looks up, her eyes scanning the crowd as though searching for something. And then, for the briefest second, our gazes meet.

And she smiles.

It is a small thing, barely more than a curve of her lips, but it is warm in a way that makes the cold feel sharper by contrast. It is effortless, unforced, a flicker of light in the dim morning.

It is not a performance, not a gesture meant to be noticed, yet it fills the space between us with something that lingers.

I feel my fingers tighten on the strap of my bag. It has been so long since someone smiled like that, not out of politeness or obligation, but simply because they had something inside them too full to keep to themselves.

I wonder, absurdly, if she smiles often, or if this is a rare and precious thing.

The train lurches again, and the moment is gone. She looks away, back to whatever distant thought had occupied her before.

When the train stops, and she is gone, she continues to occupy my mind.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about that smile, long after she’s disappeared into the cold. But I do. It follows me through the rest of the day, through the monotony of work and the endless parade of emails and meetings. It stays with me through the evening, as I stand in my small kitchen with a lukewarm cup of tea, staring out at the city lights beyond my window.

Perhaps it is nothing. A fleeting moment, a trick of the morning light, a kindness given to the air itself.

And yet, for reasons I can’t quite name, I hope to see her again.