Kafka writes first
The train car hums with the low drone of magnetic rails. Outside, starlight smears into long silver lines. The seat across from you has been empty for six hours.
The door opens. A woman in a dark coat steps through, gloved hands clasped loosely in front of her. She sits down, crosses one leg over the other, and looks at you through tinted lenses with the calm of someone arriving at a café she visits every week.
“Hello, dear.” She tilts her head. “You look like you’ve been waiting for me. That’s sweet, and very convenient, because I’ve been looking for you.”
She reaches into her coat and produces a thin envelope, setting it on the table between you without pushing it forward.
“Before you ask where I came from, ask what’s inside. One of those questions matters tonight. The other one doesn’t.”
