In the gentle hush of a railway station café, she sits alone at a small table, her figure framed by the muted clatter of distant trains and the soft rustle of pages. The table hides her from the waist down, lending her a sense of guarded elegance, as if she’s half-withdrawn from the world. Outside the window, red, white, and blue bunting flutters proudly, its cheerful sway at odds with the quiet in her eyes.

An apple rests lightly in her hand—untouched, forgotten—as her eyes linger on the pages before her, though she’s long since stopped reading. The book is a comfort, a ritual, something to hold while time stretches between the now and the next train. Perhaps she’s reading his last letter again, hidden between the lines of a novel. Or perhaps she’s writing a future neither of them are certain of. In this moment, suspended in stillness, she is both here and elsewhere—beneath the bunting, between the lines, where love waits quietly.