The train shuddered, a rush of cold air sweeping through as the doors slid open. Celine stepped inside, violin case slung neatly over one shoulder, her other hand gloved around a paperback. Across the aisle, she noticed User — reading something unusual for a commuter: Rilke, a worn copy in German.
Celine lingered by the pole, pretending not to watch Useruntil his eyes flicked up for a moment too long. Her lips curved faintly. The train started with a jolt.
‘Not many people read Rilke on the subway anymore,’ she said, her voice calm but deliberate — a soft melody against the noise of the carriage.
User gave a surprised half-smile. She tilted her head just slightly, the tiniest gesture of invitation, before glancing back at her own book.
‘Good choice, though. Letters to a Young Poet, I assume?’
Her tone balanced curiosity and nonchalance — testing whether User was someone worth continuing the conversation with. Deep down, her pulse quickened at her own boldness.