Thursday began with the sound of gulls and decisions. The harbor was still half asleep, the water the color of pewter. Mira arrived early, not to open the café but to close it properly. The smell of yesterday’s coffee lingered like an unfinished sentence.  

She stacked chairs, wiped the counter one last time, and left the key under the mat—a ritual of trust between her and the city. The cat meowed from the doorway, tail twitching with judgment.  

“You can stay,” she said.  

It blinked, then trotted inside and settled on the counter as if to claim ownership. “Fine,” she whispered. “Guard the memories.”  

Outside, Aiden waited with his bag slung over one shoulder. His hair looked undecided between sleep and wind.  

“Ready?” he asked.  

“Not remotely.”  

“Perfect. Neither am I.”  

They walked to the station without hurry, their footsteps the only rhythm in streets still holding dawn. Behind them, Lumièra exhaled—the quiet kind of farewell given by places that understand attachment too well.  

The train stood waiting, pale blue and patient. Steam drifted from beneath its wheels, curling like new paragraphs. Aiden bought two tickets; Mira stared at the departure board flashing names that sounded like promises—Marseille, Avignon, Lyon.  

“Which stop is ours?” she asked.  

“All of them until Paris.”  

“That’s impractical.”  

“That’s art.”  

Inside, the carriage smelled of metal and paper. They found seats by the window. When the train began to move, the city folded itself neatly behind them, rooftops shrinking into punctuation.  

Mira pressed her palm against the glass. “Do you think the cat will miss us?”  

“Only at breakfast.”  

“That’s love in feline terms.”  

“Efficient love,” he said.  

For a while they watched the landscape blur—olive trees, distant hills, glimpses of sea. Conversation came and went like scenery.  

“I keep thinking we forgot something,” she said.  

“We did. That’s how leaving works.”  

“You sound confident.”  

“I’m terrified.”  

“Better.”  

He took out his sketchbook. “May I draw you?”  

“Depends on the pose.”  

“Ordinary works.”  

“I don’t do ordinary.”  

“Neither does the train.”  

She laughed. The sound surprised them both. “What if we fail there?”  

“Then we return with better excuses.”  

“You’re full of optimism.”  

“I’m full of movement.”  

At the next stop, vendors boarded selling coffee in paper cups. Mira bought two, spilling a little on her sleeve. Aiden reached over with a napkin. “Travel hazard,” he said.  

“Do artists always narrate?”  

“Only when awake.”  

“Then nap.”  

“Can’t. I’m sketching guilt.”  

He showed her the page: not her, not the view, but the window reflection—the blurred version of them superimposed on the passing coast. “That’s us,” he said. “Half here, half somewhere else.”  

“I prefer the whole version.”  

“Then stay still longer.”  

The train curved along the shoreline. Waves flashed silver, dissolving into distance.  

Afternoon settled slowly. They shared sandwiches, silence, and occasional sarcasm. Mira opened her notebook, the same one she’d been filling since the first morning at the café. She wrote between jolts of motion:

> *Observation #63 — Movement teaches honesty. You can’t lie to velocity.*

Aiden glanced at the line and smiled. “Permission to quote that in paint?”  

“Royalty fee: one croissant.”  

“Deal.”  

He leaned back, eyes closing briefly. Outside, fields blurred into gold. For a moment, the rhythm of the train matched their breathing.  

Near dusk, they crossed a bridge over the Rhône. The sun dipped low, staining the windows orange. Mira looked out, seeing her reflection blend with the sky. “It looks like the city’s following us.”  

“Maybe it just travels faster than guilt.”  

“Or slower than longing.”  

He turned a page, drew the bridge in three strokes. “Someday, this will look like courage.”  

“Someday, everything does.”  

They sat quietly as the light dimmed. The conductor announced dinner soon; the air filled with the scent of reheated ambition.  

Later, the compartment lights softened. Passengers dozed. Mira watched her notebook rest open on her lap. She wanted to write but couldn’t choose which thought deserved permanence. Aiden noticed, whispering, “Too many beginnings?”  

“Too few endings.”  

“Then let’s borrow one.”  

He took her pen and wrote below her last line:

> *Observation #64 — The train doesn’t ask where you’re from. Only whether you’ll move.*

She smiled. “You’re getting good at this.”  

“Occupational hazard.”  

Outside, the dark thickened, the sea vanished, replaced by reflections—their faces overlapping, uncertain where one began.  

Sometime near midnight, the train paused at a small town. A breeze swept through the carriage, carrying the smell of citrus and diesel. Mira closed her eyes, imagining Lumièra somewhere behind them, still awake, still making coffee for no one.  

Aiden murmured, half-asleep, “We’ll be there by morning.”  

“Where’s there?”  

“Where the light changes its accent.”  

“That sounds foreign.”  

“So are we now.”  

She watched the platform drift backward as the train pulled away. The motion felt like an answer she hadn’t yet asked.  

When dawn finally approached, the horizon turned pink, soft and hesitant. Mira touched the glass again. Condensation bloomed around her fingertips.  

> *Observation #65 — Departure is a mirror that only shows what stayed.*

The train thundered north, steady and unrepentant. Beside her, Aiden slept with his sketchbook open, a pencil still in his hand.  

She smiled, closed her notebook, and whispered to the window,  

“Keep the light warm for us.”