The train rattled on, steady and hypnotic. I watched trees blur past the window as I moved to my new seat—C4, next to a dusty pane smeared with the golden light of late afternoon.
At first, nothing seemed unusual. Just another seat. Another part of the journey.
But then I felt it.
A strange pressure beneath the cushion. Something uneven. Something not meant to be there.
Curious, I slipped my fingers under the seat's fabric, prying it open like a secret waiting too long to be heard. A small, folded paper sat taped to a flat, smooth stone. A strange pairing—paper and rock—delicate and permanent.
My throat tightened.
The handwriting was unmistakable. I hadn't seen it in years, but I would have known it in the dark.
"If you're reading this, then maybe the horizon remembers after all. —I."
"Ishita…" I whispered.
The air shifted.
I didn't just remember her—I felt her, like the scent of rain on dry earth, like the hum of a forgotten song that suddenly knows its way back. My fingers trembled as I turned the note over. There, faint but deliberate, was something else—a string of numbers, or maybe a code.
But there was more.
As I stared at the rock, it shimmered faintly in the light, just for a second. Like it breathed. A pulse ran through my palm. Cold. Ancient.
I blinked.
The world stilled.
And then, just beyond the corner of my vision, the train window darkened—not like nightfall, but as if something on the other side no longer belonged to this world. The trees weren't trees. The light wasn't sunlight. A shadow rippled across the glass, then vanished.
The note in my lap grew warm.
I knew, without knowing how, that this wasn't just a message.
It was a door.
And it had just opened.