The train moved steadily into the darkness of evening, its hypnotic rhythm punctuated by the regular clatter of wheels on the tracks.

Outside the window, Venice dissolved into the night, its shimmering lights reflected on the water like fragments of a dream slipping away. Peter sat by the window, staring at the scene but not truly seeing it, lost in thought. A man nearing forty, his gaze betrayed the inner weight he had carried for far too long. Each sway of the train seemed to unearth a buried memory, a fragment of the chaos that haunted him.

The carriage exuded a muffled, timeless ambiance. Polished wood and velvet furnishings spoke of another era, their faint scent of furniture wax mingling with the distant tang of metal and coal. The low hum of voices from neighboring cabins added an intimate layer to the journey. Yet Peter felt out of place—not just amidst the opulence of his surroundings but within himself.