✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ᴛʜɪʀᴛʏ-ɴɪɴᴇ

Train to California.

🌎

    SHE BOARDED THE TRAIN TO CALIFORNIA WITHOUT A HITCH. The station, bustling with people and filled with the sounds of announcements, echoed in her ears, but she moved through the crowd with a focused determination. As she found her way to her cabin, the rhythmic chug of the train's engine and the distant call of the conductor signaled the beginning of her journey.

    Rory’s cabin was cozy, a small cabin within the larger, steel beast that would carry her across the country. The soft, upholstered seats offered a welcome comfort and the gentle sway of the train as it began to move provided a calming rhythm. She took a moment to settle in, placing her bag beside her and gazing out of the window at the world that was slowly drifting by. The landscape outside was a blur of greens and browns, the occasional flash of a city or town breaking through the monotony of trees and fields. This journey was a welcome reprieve, a chance to gather her thoughts and prepare for what lay ahead.

    Shortly after she settled into her seat, the door to her cabin slid open, and a young mother entered, guiding her little boy by the hand. Rory watched them with mild curiosity as they moved into the space, the mother carrying a small bag and the boy clutching a stuffed animal—a worn and well-loved turtle, or was it a tortoise?

    The mother offered Rory a polite smile, a silent acknowledgment as they made themselves comfortable on the opposite side of the cabin. The little boy, perhaps no older than five or six, looked up at Rory with wide, innocent eyes, his curiosity tempered by a shyness that was endearing rather than intrusive. His sandy blonde hair fell into his eyes as he peered at her, a small, sweet smile curving his lips before he buried his face against his mother’s side, clutching the stuffed animal tighter.

    Normally, the presence of a child on any form of transportation would have been a source of mild annoyance. The noise, the constant chatter or cries, the boundless energy that children often had—it was usually too much to deal with when all she wanted was peace and quiet. But this little boy was different. He was quiet. Too quiet

    The hours passed in relative silence, the train rocking gently as it sped along the tracks.

    Lunchtime rolled around, and the soft chime signaling the meal service broke the stillness of the cabin. A crew member soon appeared, a kind-faced woman carrying a tray of food for each of them. Rory accepted her meal with a nod of thanks, her thoughts still miles away as she absentmindedly began to unwrap her sandwich. The boy’s mother gently coaxed him into eating, her voice low and soothing as she described the contents of his meal. Rory watched them out of the corner of her eye.

    As she adjusted in her seat, her hand brushed against the fabric of the trench coat draped over her lap—the one Anya had lent her before she left. But something felt different. There was a weight in the pocket, a slight bulge that hadn’t been there before.

    Rory frowned, puzzled. She didn’t remember putting anything in the pocket. Her mind raced as she tried to recall if she had placed something in it earlier and simply forgotten, but nothing came to mind. Curiosity piqued, she reached into the pocket, her fingers brushing against something cool and metallic. She felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread wash over her, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her she wasn’t going to like what she found.

    Slowly, she withdrew the object from the pocket, her breath catching in her throat as she recognized it immediately. It was the ring. The same golden ring she had flung into the depths of Lotus Lake, hoping to rid herself of its presence forever. And yet, here it was, glimmering in her hand as though it had never left her side. The light from the cabin window caught on the metal, casting a faint reflection that danced across the ceiling. It was as if the ring was mocking her, taunting her with its refusal to be discarded.