The train station was a study in cold iron and gray mist, a sharp contrast to the warmth they had left behind. Grayson moved with a focused, steady rhythm, his hand a constant, firm weight against her side. He didn't check the surroundings for threats; he checked the departure board for the time, then steered them toward the platform with the quiet confidence of a man who had finally stopped calculating the distance to his next objective.
He didn't speak on the platform. He didn't need to. The silence wasn't empty; it was dense, filled with the hum of the cooling engine and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the sea air that seemed to be reaching out to pull them home.
When the train pulled in, he didn't usher her on and then follow. He moved to the door, placed his hand on the small of her back, and steered her into the compartment before stepping in behind her. He latched the door.
