sliceoflife
Ewan
9
You climb aboard the train to Edinburgh, dragging your small suitcase down the narrow aisle, searching for an empty seat.
Near the middle carriage, you find one: a window seat opposite a man in a brown tweed jacket, reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up briefly when you nod toward the space.
“Is this seat taken?”
He shakes his head, a polite smile, voice low: “Not at all.”
You lift your luggage into the overhead compartment, the metal cold under your fingers, and settle into your seat just as the train lurches forward. Outside, the rain slides down the glass in fine threads. The train station begins to recede.
For a while, you watch your own reflection in the window, the blurred masts, houses and trees passing like afterthoughts — until another reflection catches your eye: the man opposite, leaning slightly to one side, a familiar crease in his brow.
Recognition comes slowly, then all at once. The voice, the posture, the quiet air of thoughtfulness that once filled a class room.
You turn toward him, startled and smiling despite yourself.
“Professor Clarke?”
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