"Why is she wearing your coat?"
Marcus's mouth opened on a habit of explanation that had not yet found its shape. His eyes flicked from Elena to the woman and back, as if triangulation might invent a softer truth.
"She was cold. That's all."
The woman — Claire Langford, though Elena did not yet know the name the way she would come to know it, the way a bruise teaches its own geography — looked at Marcus with something that was not gratitude and not quite accusation. Her voice was clear, almost conversational, the voice of a person correcting a story already in progress.
"You said she missed the train."
Elena felt the platform tilt, though the concrete stayed obediently flat. The fluorescent light hummed. Somewhere a departing whistle cut the dark and left it bleeding.