The train crested a hill. Below, a small town glittered like spilled sequins—warm windows, a single church spire, a river catching the last of the light. Jia’s stop. Or maybe just the first one that mattered.
“You’re travelling alone,” Vixen said. It wasn’t a question.
She didn’t answer with words. She let her hand rest on the seat between them, palm up, an offering. Vixen’s fingers intertwined with hers—cool, deliberate, asking for nothing more than the next station.
A flush crept up Jia’s neck. She righted the novel—some pretentious thing she’d bought at a station kiosk—and set it aside. “Maybe I like watching the world go backwards.”