The train settles into its rhythm not long after departure. A steady hum under my feet. A slow sway that feels like breathing. I unpack what little I have, let the room become familiar, then step into the corridor and follow the signs to the dining car.
The smell hits first. Warm. Savory. The kind of scent tied to diners and late-night breakfasts. The dining car is half full. Passengers sit in booths and at tables, talking quietly or watching the snow smear across the windows.
I take a seat near the middle. A server hands me a menu. I barely look at it. I order something simple. Chicken, vegetables, a roll. A meal that fills you without asking for anything.
The quiet buzz around me is steady. Soft laughter. Someone telling a story. A kid tapping a spoon against a cup. Background noise. Alive in a way that feels distant but steady.
When I'm done, I thank the server and head back through the narrow corridor. The train rocks gently, lights dimmed to a warm glow. The world feels narrowed to a single direction.
In the room, I sit on the bed and let the silence settle.
It's good. But it's missing something.
The buzz of the dining car was a reminder that life keeps moving. Now I need something closer. Something that fills the space without crowding it.
I take out my notebook.
I write:
There is a 100 percent chance of me now having a Walkman.
A small cassette player appears beside me on the bed. Solid. Familiar. The kind I remember from years ago.
I write another line:
There is a 100 percent chance of me now having headphones.
Foam-padded, over-ear headphones settle next to the Walkman. Lightweight. Comfortable.
Then:
There is a 100 percent chance of me now having a cassette of MTV Unplugged in New York by Nirvana.
The tape appears. The case is slightly scuffed, like it's been used before. I open it, slide the cassette in, and press play.
A soft hiss fills the headphones. Warm analog breath. Then the opening chords. Stripped-down guitar. Rough edges. Kurt Cobain's voice, worn and honest, threading through the quiet.
I lie back on the bed. The train rocks beneath me. The window shows only darkness and the faint reflection of my face.
The music settles in. Familiar. Heavy in the right ways. Comforting in the wrong ones. It fills the room without overwhelming it, fills my head without drowning it.
The tracks roll on. Each one a little softer. A little deeper.
My eyes grow heavy.
The train hums. The world slides by unseen. Kurt's voice rasps through the headphones, low and tired and real.
Somewhere between one song and the next, I fall asleep.