The morning light is thin when I step into the dining car. Not cold, just pale, the kind of light that feels like it's still deciding what kind of day it wants to be. A few passengers sit scattered around the room, eating quietly, wrapped in their own thoughts. I take a seat by the window and order breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee. Simple. Familiar.
The train begins to slow as I eat. Not abruptly. Just a gradual easing, like it's exhaling. Outside the window, the countryside gives way to concrete. Low buildings at first, then taller ones, then the unmistakable rise of a city skyline. Glass and steel catching the morning sun. High‑rises stacked like teeth. Streets threading between them.
It reminds me of where I've been.
Not this city specifically. Just the shape of it. The density. The noise. The way places like this press in on you until you forget you're allowed to breathe.
I sip my coffee and watch the buildings slide past. The train weaves through the outskirts, then deeper, threading between towers that scrape the sky. People on sidewalks. Cars at lights. A world moving without me.
And I wonder.
Not in a desperate way. Not in a searching‑for‑purpose way. Just… curiosity.
Why me?
Why did Gabrielle show up when she did? Why did she choose me to pull out of the mess I was drowning in? Was it random? Was it deliberate? Was I a name on a list? A coin flip? A whim? A plan?
Does God have a plan for me?
Or am I just a break in the monotony of eternity? A momentary distraction in an endless timeline?
The questions don't change anything. They don't shift my path. They don't rewrite my goals. But they sit in my chest like warm stones, solid enough to feel, light enough to carry.
I take another bite of toast and let the thoughts settle.
I'll ask her tonight. Not because I need answers. Just because I want to understand the shape of the world I'm walking into.
The train clears the densest part of the city and begins to pick up speed again. The buildings thin out. The skyline drops behind us. The tracks straighten.
Home stretch.
A straight shot to whatever comes next.
Before I leave the dining car, I stop the attendant and request lunch and dinner to be delivered to my room. Something comforting. Something warm. Something that makes the day feel steady.
Back in my cabin, I grab my bag and head to the shared bathroom. The shower is small, barely enough room to turn around, but the hot water hits my skin and everything loosens. The grime of travel. The weight of thought. The leftover tension from dreams.
When I'm clean and dressed in my spare clothes, I return to my room and sit by the window. The world outside is a blur of fields and distant trees. The train hums beneath me, steady and sure.
I open my notebook and start writing down the questions forming in my head.
Why me?
How much of the world's history is shaped by beings like her?
How much is shaped by us?
What does eternity look like from her side?
What does change look like to something that old?
Not answers. Just questions. Seeds for a conversation.
Lunch arrives. Then dinner. I eat both quietly, reading over my notes, letting the rhythm of the train carry me forward.
As the sky darkens and the last light fades, I lie back on the bed. The hum of the tracks becomes softer, almost like breathing. My eyes grow heavy.
I'm ready.
Sleep takes me gently, and the night opens its door.