idk yet

The 2:17 from London Waterloo to Shere always smelled like rain and old coffee, even in August.

Zeke Walt had the window seat because window seats didn't ask questions. He'd spent the last forty minutes counting telegraph poles as they blurred past Guilford, watching Surrey slip from concrete to green. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four.

That's when he saw it.

Half-tucked under the armrest of seat 14B, like it had been shoved there in a rush. A notebook. Dark blue leather, worn soft at the corners, held shut by a thin yellow elastic that had lost its snap. No name on the cover. Just initials, S.A., and a small sticker on the back, half-peeled: a strange little orange cat with a button instead of its left eye.

It wasn't his. Obviously.

The train slowed for the next stop and a girl in a pink and yellow raincoat grabbed her bag and bolted, even though the doors hadn't opened yet. Zeke watched her go. When he looked back, the notebook was alone.

He told himself he'd hand it to the conductor.

He told himself that for exactly three seconds.

The elastic gave on the first try. The first page was in black ink, handwriting that leaned forward like it was in a hurry to catch up with her train of thought

The train lurched. He looked up. The car was empty now. Just him, the rain on the windows, and a diary that had been waiting for someone

And for reasons he couldn't explain, Zeke was pretty sure it had been waiting for him