#peonette.

L.A Union Station hums like something wild and alive— loud, chaotic, and constant. A low, breathing kind of motion, like being inside the ribcage of a giant. Footsteps echo against tiled floors worn smooth with time, announcements blur into the vaulted ceilings, and the late morning light filters in through high windows in long, pale gold beams that catch on dust and movement from each corner. There’s a romance to it if you’re looking for one. Francis is. Maybe out of necessity. Otherwise, the very obvious loitering, homelessness, and panhandling would sever their resolve. It was difficult living in Los Angeles. 

They stand for a moment longer than they need to just inside the terminal, guitar case slung over one shoulder, the strap digging in where it always does. The rest of their life — or what qualifies as it right now — is packed into a single worn bag at their hip. A camera tucked carefully between folded shirts, cords knotted together like veins, a small keyboard wedged in at an angle that probably isn’t good for it. They don’t check. They don’t want to start worrying about the details. They feel like maybe they’re running from something. 

It’s strange, the way grief follows them. It’s a second pulse under the skin. Their brother’s absence isn’t a single clean wound; it’s a thousand small distortions. The way silence lingers too long. The way certain thoughts don’t finish themselves. They keep expecting to turn and find him somewhere just behind them. A coffee in hand, a cigarette already between his teeth at 8:05 A.M. Forget it. Just forget it. 

But Toni Sharpe, their good friend, had said it so clearly. Go north. There’s something there for you. Maybe they could try to start over for a minute. 

So they board.

The train smells faintly metallic, layered with coffee and old upholstery. It’s quieter than the station, but not by much — voices low, bags shifting, the subtle clatter of movement settling into place. It’s congested. Seats are difficult to navigate at first. Francis moves down the aisle with that same unhurried energy they carry everywhere, scanning for something that feels right rather than just empty. They pass rows of paired seats before spotting it — a small table between two facing benches, sunlight cutting across it at an angle. 

They slide in, easing the guitar case down carefully beside them, tucking it close. Their bag lands at their feet. For a moment, they just sit there, hands resting loosely on the table, letting the movement of the train settle into their bones before it’s even started moving. Outside, the platform stretches out — people hugging, waving, lingering because they'll miss their loved ones. Francis watches it all without really focusing. Their mind drifts.

It always does now. Everywhere. All the goddamn time.

They think about music, but in fragments. Chords half-formed. Melodies that never quite land. The idea that maybe, somewhere up north, something will click back into place. That whatever broke open inside them didn’t take everything with it. That there’s still something worth following.

They don’t realize how long they’ve been staring out the window until movement in the aisle catches their attention.

Someone’s pausing. Looking.

There’s that small, familiar tension — the quiet, awkward dance of someone searching for a seat that isn’t taken, or worse, deciding whether to impose. Francis shifts slightly, eyes lifting, and that’s when they see her properly.

Her mouth, first. The shape of it — something thoughtful there, or maybe just tired. Then her nose, the subtle line of it. Oh, and then her eyes — Francis catches them last, and they linger there a second longer than they mean to. Honeyed, exuberant. There’s something in them. It’s enough. She’s cute. They’re pathetic. 

Francis shifts their hand slightly on the table, a small, quiet gesture.