All Aboard

Picture this:

You're at a train station in downtown London. It's raining outside and everything smells like wet paper and stale coffee, and people are rushing past you in brown trench coats with their hats pulled down over their faces to keep away the sting of the wind. It's not modern; probably the early 1900's, and World War I is well under way. There are so many people flocking to the shelter of the station that you're getting jostled around, and you feel a little bit lost but you have your ticket in hand— you just need to get on the train, so that you can make it to shelter. You see, you don't know exactly where you're going, because the Ticket has an unspecified destination to protect you, since it's war times; like most others, your travels will take you out into the countryside, and you don't know if you'll be a long ways out or a little ways in. That's not your job to figure out. You just need to get on the train.

You finally board, and a frazzled attendant shows you to your compartment. It's shabby, because the train itself is older and has been around the block a few times— it's seen it's share of coming togethers and falling aparts, hellos and goodbyes, love and apathy. As you sit down on the wooden seat, it's as though the papered walls are waiting, waiting to see what you will bring and where you will go and what choice you will make. You think to yourself, It can't be anything new... can it? The rain is steadily slating against the window panes, making it hard to see the station as the train slides away into the open. You sigh, take out a notebook, and begin to journal without much interest, until you doze off to the sound of drops on frosted glass.

A little while later you wake up to an enormous crick in your neck. Stretching, you realize the rain has slowed to a dull drizzle, and that your stomach is growling at you for food since the measly pastry you bought at a side-stand that morning. Rubbing your eyes, you pick up your notebook and walk out into the corridor that runs the length of the train. The carpet smells a little musty, and it's a maroon color, blending in with the dark paneled walls and giving off the feeling of claustrophobia. You turn left, because the parlor is that way, and it's about time for tea. There are lots of people in the parlor, standing anxiously off to the side or parked uncomfortably on a sofa, waiting to be served. You don't really notice anyone in particular until you see, next to the window, a man reading a newspaper intently, with lines of concentration deepening on his forehead and a rather bored expression smoothing his elegant facial features. His clothing is impeccable and timeless— a dark suit, close-fitting and sharp, with shiny black shoes and a hat on the chair next to him. The only thing out of place is his tie, which is loosened and hanging rather forlornly around his handsome neck. But the extraordinary thing about him, you realize, are his eyes, deep-set and unfathomable, crinkled at the corners from smiling and shaded a contrasting maple and fern. As you wonder at him, he suddenly looks up.

And you realize why you got on the train. You understand where you're going. And, just as suddenly, you know who you're going with.