“Any good?”
“You alright, love?” asked Brenda, the woman who’d occupied seat 14A (the one by the priority area) for as long as Peter had held 12C. She knitted aggressive cardigans for grandchildren she openly admitted to disliking. rail season ticket prices
For seven years, Peter Hargrave had watched the same smear of diesel exhaust and rainwater trace its way from Croydon to London Bridge. He knew its exact shape—a distorted map of an island he’d never visit. He knew when the light would catch it (second Wednesday of November, low winter sun) and when the heating would fog around it (any Monday below 5°C). “Any good
The train lurched. A man in a cheap suit spilled coffee onto Peter’s shoe. Neither of them apologised. That was the unspoken rule of the 7:46: apology required acknowledgment, and acknowledgment required seeing each other as human. He knew its exact shape—a distorted map of