Y/n sat by the window, a letter folded and refolded in her hands until the creases had gone soft. The words were Tommy's, but the hand was hurried, sharp. Three pages telling her nothing and everything all at once.

Arthur's got himself in a spot of trouble, but nothing we can't handle. John sends his love. The business is growing. We miss you.

We miss you.

She'd read it so many times she could recite it in her sleep. But it wasn't the words she kept coming back to. It was what he hadn't written.

The train began to slow. Birmingham's skyline rose outside the window—smokestacks, chimneys, the dark push of industry against a bruised sky. It had been months since she'd left. The city looked the same. It always did.

But the letter in her hands felt heavier than it had when she'd first opened it.

The train lurched to a stop. Steam hissed against the platform. And out there, beyond the window, stood a figure in a long dark coat, cap pulled low, cigarette burning between his fingers.

He wasn't moving toward the train. He was just... waiting.