I look up to see a woman beside me on the train, holding my hand. There's a gentleness to her, a quiet yearning hid under the exhaustion of age; her sweater smells of garden earth. I don’t know her.

Plush rabbit tucked secure under my arm, I cautiously scan the other passengers riding with me (click-clack below our feet).

An old man slouches into his seat across from me, hat sunk low shading gruff mustache. He looks soft as a toy bear as he naps, rustling newspaper folded over chest.

A mother sits primly, hunched over needlework. A gift for the daughter at her side, resting on hip. The lines of her face are drawn taut, but her fingers are fluid and sure. It's nearly finished.

A little boy skips down the corridor, confident footfalls thumping in rhythm. He steals an inquisitive glance at the new girl, proud furrow in his brow as he grabs a support pole and falls into a spin. He’s unconcerned.

A young man dressed for work leans into car window and looks up at the clouds, timid

wonder in his eyes, a gnawing fear at bay in his chest beneath steady breaths and gripped armrest. He seems so small.

I stare down at my own feet, legs swaying slightly, not quite touching the floor. Her hand is warm.

I look up, searching the woman’s face; there’s a kindness under her practised tranquility, the serene laugh lines of a grandmother. I’m not afraid.

"Where am I going?", I ask.  
She meets my gaze for a moment, words held briefly on her tongue before looking away, off beyond the traincar; it seems as if years pass through her eyes like moments.

"The same place as all of us” she replies at last, turning back to me with a soft smile, taking my hand in both of hers. Her assuring warmth betrays the sadness in her eyes.

I nod, clutching my bunny close