I choked out her name—“Leah!” The moment broke. She stood abruptly, not saying a word, and started walking down the aisle toward the next car, disappearing through the door before I could catch up. When I got off the train at my stop, still shaken, my phone buzzed. A call from Mom. She was crying. She said she’d just woken up from a terrible dream—one she hadn’t had in years. In it,

Leah was alive. Trapped. Scared. Reaching out. She said she could feel her. I didn’t tell her what I saw. I didn’t tell anyone. But tonight, I’m taking that same train again. Same time. Same seat. There’s something about the way that girl looked at me. Like she remembered everything. Like she knew what I missed all those years ago. Like she’d been waiting for me to see her. And now that I have—I don’t think I can look away.