The train moved exactly at 06:05 a.m., as if it had been holding its breath all along just to keep its promise to time. Within minutes, one of the staff members walked down the aisle with mechanical precision, handing out water bottles and neatly folded newspapers, the kind that still smell faintly of ink and early mornings.

Outside, the sky was a slow painting—still dark, still quiet, with a faint tint of blue trying to push its way through the black. I was a little drowsy, my body whispering reminders of last night’s late hours. But instead of giving in to sleep, I opened my copy of Norwegian Wood. Murakami’s words greeted me like an old friend—calm, melancholic, and strangely honest.

I don’t usually sleep on trains. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the rhythm of movement, or maybe it’s that quiet knowing that everything outside the window is slipping away, changing every minute, and I don’t want to miss it. It’s a strange habit, but one that feels more like ritual now.

Time blurred. The cloudy morning gradually unfolded into gold as the sun began its slow rise. There’s something poetic about sunrise and sunset—how they hold the same colors, the same calm, and yet carry completely different meanings. One wakes you up, the other puts you to rest. One starts a story, the other finishes it.

Soon, the pantry staff came by with coffee and a small tray of snacks. The aroma of freshly brewed train coffee—bittersweet and oddly different—mingled with the warm silence of the coach. I sipped slowly, letting the warmth settle in, and without much thought, drifted back into Murakami’s world. The stations came and went like brief thoughts passing through the mind—present for a moment, then gone.

The coach was nearly full now, each seat occupied by someone with their own destination. People had settled in — the only sounds were pages turning, metal clinks from coffee and tea cups, and the occasional announcement echoing from a distant speaker.

Beside me sat a mother and her young daughter. They talked the entire time, their voices low but constant. The daughter, maybe seven or eight, had that curious sparkle in her eyes—the kind that turns every word into a question. The mother responded with gentle patience. Their presence didn’t disturb me. If anything, it added a strange  vibe to the moment—like watching someone else’s quiet happiness and letting it brush against your solitude for a while. I didn’t speak, just listened in fragments, all while reading