The Season That Found Us

The city didn’t care if it was grieving season. Lights everywhere. Too many. Gold bulbs stitched across streets like someone was trying to hold the cold together with glitter and hope. A brass band somewhere was murdering a carol. Mulled wine, burnt sugar, wet wool. People laughing too loud, like joy was a competitive sport. She hated all of it. Lia stood under a flickering sign that read WINTER NIGHT EXPRESS — SEASONAL ROUTE ONLY, backpack digging into her shoulders, fingers numb inside cheap gloves she’d bought because they were cute, not because they worked. Rookie mistake. Story of her life, honestly. The board blinked once. Then again. DELAYED. She exhaled sharply. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, to no one, to everyone. Around her, couples leaned into each other. Families complained in harmony. Someone dropped a cup and cursed in a language she didn’t understand but felt deeply. The air smelled like cinnamon and impatience. She checked her phone. No signal. Of course. This route only ran in December. Some festive nonsense train meant to shuttle tourists between old towns dressed up like postcards. She hadn’t even wanted to be on it. It just happened to be the cheapest way out. Out of home. Out of memory. Out of the noise in her head. She kicked her suitcase lightly, like it had personally betrayed her. “That thing wronged you?” The voice came from her left. Calm. Mildly amused. She turned, already annoyed and paused. He wasn’t what she expected. Which was nothing, really. Just… a man. Early forties maybe. Coat too nice for the weather but worn like it had history. Hands in pockets. Face relaxed in a way that suggested he’d stopped fighting the world a long time ago. Which irritated her immediately. “Mind your business,” she said, reflexive, sharp. He didn’t flinch. Just nodded once. “Fair.” Silence settled. Not awkward. Worse. Comfortable. She shifted her weight. The sign flickered again. “Seasonal routes,” he added, glancing up. “They always run late. Like they’re surprised anyone actually shows up.” She snorted before she could stop herself. Then scowled, betrayed by her own face. He smiled. Not wide. Just enough. “First time?” he asked. She hesitated. Lied. “No.” He accepted that lie the way tired people do. Without effort. “Julian,” he said, offering nothing but the name. She stared at him, then at his empty hand. “Aaliyah.” Another lie came easier. “Lia,” she added. Smaller. Safer. They stood there, two strangers stitched temporarily into the same cold, while the city screamed joy around them. “Holiday travel?” he asked. She laughed. It came out wrong. “Something like that.” He didn’t push. That was his mistake. Because once you don’t push, she fills the space herself. “Honestly,” she said, rubbing her hands together, “this whole thing is stupid. Like who decided December needed all this pressure? Lights, music, expectations. You’re either happy or you’re failing publicly.” He looked at her then. Really looked. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s loud.” The board blinked again. CANCELLED. A groan rolled through the crowd. Someone laughed hysterically. A child cried. Somewhere, bells rang. Because of course they did. She felt it in her chest. That familiar, rising thing. Panic dressed as anger. “Well,” she snapped, already reaching for her bag, “that’s just perfect.” “Where are you headed?” Julian asked. She stopped. Looked back. Suspicious. Tired. “Why?” He shrugged. “Because there’s a café down the street that stays open when things fall apart. And because I’m guessing wherever you’re going… isn’t actually the point.” She should’ve said no. She didn’t. Outside, snow started falling. Not gently. Determined. Like it meant to stay. And just like that, December closed its hand around both of them.