The hotel's continental breakfast sits in a small room off the lobby, the kind with laminate floors and a TV mounted in the corner playing muted morning news. A few travelers hover around the buffet, half awake, moving like they're following muscle memory.
I grab a plate and make my way down the line.
Powdered scrambled eggs sit in a chafing dish, pale and fluffy in that unmistakably artificial way. I scoop a portion anyway. They're edible if you drown them in ketchup. Bacon. Sausage links. A stack of pancakes under a heat lamp. A row of Eggo waffles next to a pitcher of table syrup. Nothing indulgent. Nothing fancy. Just fuel.
I grab two slices of toast, butter them until the corners glisten, and add a glass of orange juice that tastes like it came from a concentrate jug in the back. It's all exactly what I need, satiating, grounding, forgettable.
I sit at a small table by the window and eat slowly. The eggs are better with ketchup. The bacon is crisp enough. The pancakes soak up syrup like sponges. It's a meal that doesn't ask anything of me. Doesn't remind me of anything. Just fills the space.
When I'm done, I take a banana from the fruit bowl near the exit. Good for the walk.
Back in the room, I pack the little I have. No rush. No panic. Just folding clothes, checking pockets, making sure the notebook is where it needs to be. The folder from the travel agency sits on the desk, waiting.
By early afternoon, I'm ready.
I head back to the travel agency, the bell chiming overhead as I step inside. The same woman from yesterday looks up, her glasses catching the light.
"Back again," she says. "Ready to set up transportation?"
"Yeah," I say. "I want to book the train."
"Tomorrow morning departure?" she asks, already reaching for the keyboard.
"Actually… is there anything leaving today?"
She pauses, checks the screen, then nods. "There is. A late afternoon departure. Same route. Same three day ride. Private room and meals included. It's the basic sleeper package, quiet, simple, uninterrupted."
"That's exactly what I want."
She smiles, typing quickly. "Alright. I'll lock it in. You'll need to be at the station about an hour before departure. That gives you… just enough time."
"Perfect."
She prints the itinerary and hands it over. "Everything's set. You're officially on your way."
"Thank you," I say.
"Of course. And… good luck. It feels like you're stepping into something new."
I tuck the itinerary into my folder and step back out into the cold.
The sky has turned a soft gray, the kind that promises more snow but not enough to matter. I check out at the hotel, thank Evan for the stay, and step outside to flag down a cab.
One pulls up almost immediately, an older sedan with a driver who looks like he's been doing this long enough to read people before they speak.
"Train station?" he asks.
"Yeah."
He nods and pulls into traffic. The city slides past the windows, familiar streets, familiar corners, all of them feeling like they belong to someone else now. I peel the banana and eat it quietly as we drive.
We hit a few slow lights. A delivery truck blocks a lane. A bus cuts us off. The driver mutters under his breath, but I'm not worried. I'm not meant to miss this train.
We pull up to the station with minutes to spare.
"That'll do it," the cabbie says.
I hand him the fare and a generous tip, more than he expects. His eyebrows lift.
"You sure?"
"Yeah," I say. "Thanks for the ride."
He nods, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Safe travels, friend."
I shoulder my bag and head inside. The station is a mix of noise and motion, rolling suitcases, announcements echoing overhead, the smell of pretzels and old coffee. My train is already boarding, the line moving steadily toward the platform.
I move with it.
The conductor scans my ticket and gestures me forward. "Sleeper car's toward the back. Room's ready for you."
The train hums beneath my feet as I walk down the narrow corridor. People settle into their seats, families wrangle luggage, someone argues softly on the phone. Life in motion.
My room is small but clean, a fold down bed, a compact desk, a window that frames the snowy platform outside. A door that locks. A space that's mine for the next three days.
I set my bag down and sit on the edge of the bed. The train gives a soft lurch, the kind that says we're about to go.
I look out the window as the platform begins to slide away.
The city shrinks behind me.
The tracks stretch ahead.