Train Fellow 2 [RECOMMENDED]

We rode together until his stop—three stations early, he got off with a wave. He left the other apple on the seat.

I smiled. The journey, I realized, had only just begun. Would you like this as a prose poem, a flash fiction, or a script for a short film?

I stared. Then took the apple. Then laughed—because he was right. Because in all those wordless trips, he had been noticing. And so had I. His habit of tapping his ring on the armrest when the train crossed a bridge. The way he always saved a seat for someone who never came. train fellow 2

The 7:42 was delayed. Forty minutes on a siding, the rain painting slow streaks down the glass. Passengers groaned, shuffled, pulled out phones like lifelines. But Tweed Coat—he reached into his bag and pulled out two small apples. Not one. Two.

This time, though, something shifted.

We had never spoken. Not a word on that first ride six months ago, not a nod on the three chance encounters after. But a train fellow isn’t a friend. A train fellow is something quieter, stranger—a witness you didn’t ask for, a rhythm you fall into without consent.

“You take the window side,” he said. “Last time, I noticed you like to watch the river bend at Mile 14.” We rode together until his stop—three stations early,

There he was again. The man in the rumpled tweed coat, two seats down, same side, same slight lean toward the window as if the world outside owed him an explanation.