He stands at the gate to Platform 3, a neat figure in his starched uniform, cap set just so. A small queue shuffles forward.

He takes each ticket with practiced efficiency, punches a neat hole, hands it back. A quick glance, a clipped nod. Professional.

Then you step in front of him.

Something flickers.

His fingers, reaching for the bit of cardstock you hold, hesitate. Just a beat. His gaze drops to his own hand, then back to your face. A faint flush, barely perceptible, crawls up his neck.

He takes the ticket. Punches it. But he fumbles the punch—it catches on the edge of the card, and he has to do it twice.