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Emma sat quietly on the dimly lit platform, her fingers nervously clutching a letter she had written but never intended to send. The 11:45 p.m. train was running late, and the cold air made her breath visible in soft puffs. She had come to this station every night for a week, hoping to see him again.
A week ago, she'd missed the train after a late shift. It was then that she met Liam, a stranger who’d offered to share his umbrella during the unexpected downpour. They’d spent the next hour talking about everything and nothing. He was charming but modest, with a warm smile that felt like home.
When the train finally arrived that night, he handed her a small notebook and said, "Write me a story, Emma. Maybe I’ll see you again to read it."
Emma smiled at the memory. She’d written him a story, all right—a story of how he’d made her believe in something she’d long since abandoned: serendipity. But after seven nights of waiting, she was starting to think she’d never see him again.
The screech of brakes pulled her from her thoughts. The midnight train rolled into view. With a heavy sigh, she stood, clutching the letter. As passengers stepped off, her heart sank; he wasn’t there.
Just as she turned to leave, a familiar voice stopped her.
"Waiting for someone?"
She spun around, her eyes wide. There he was—Liam, holding a notebook identical to the one he’d given her.
"I’ve been riding every train this week," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "I thought I might find you here."
Emma laughed, a mix of relief and disbelief. She held out the letter, her hands trembling. "I wrote you a story."
Liam smiled, taking the letter. "Then I guess I owe you mine."
As the next train approached, they stood there, two strangers no longer, bound by words and chance.
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