Train station

The envelope looked so ordinary in Mark’s hand. Plain white. Harmless. No one passing him on the street could have guessed what was inside.

Emma's coat left open against the cool air, heels clicking in rhythm as she walked beside her husband.

The station was already busy when they arrived. Commuters shuffled across the tiled concourse, bags slung over shoulders, eyes on the big departure board. Voices echoed under the high glass roof, the constant hum of movement and machinery blending into a restless symphony.

Mark’s hand tightened briefly on Emma’s as they passed through the entrance. He didn’t need to ask again if she was sure. He could feel it in the way her body almost vibrated with anticipation.

They found the waiting area near platform seven — a line of wooden benches, some already occupied by travellers sipping coffee, scrolling their phones, or flipping through dog-eared paperbacks. Mark paused, looking as though he was simply searching for a seat. Then he sat for a moment, set the envelope carefully down on the bench beside him, and after a beat, stood again.

“Coffee?” he murmured.

Emma nodded, her throat dry.

They walked together toward the small kiosk at the edge of the concourse, her pulse thundering with every step. From where they stood in line, she could see the envelope sitting there, alone, its white surface almost glowing against the dark wood.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. Someone’s going to pick it up. Someone’s going to see me.

She accepted a steaming paper cup from Mark, her hands trembling just slightly. She couldn’t stop her eyes from flicking back toward the bench.