Emma found the platform to the late evening train from Glasgow and got in with a smile on her face. As always, the train was old, not unclean, just bare and naturally noisy and for her it was the first sign that she was almost there, at her second home – her friend Fiona’s Scottish house amidst the glens of Glencoe. She found a seat and was surprised to see that more people than usual were on the train, especially as it was the end of the hiking season. This was one of Emma’s favourite times of the year to visit Scotland. She was a regular, never visiting less than three times every year and few things gave her more pleasure in life. She loved the scenery, the people and the tranquillity. Emma took a deep breath and then took her notepad and a pen out of her backpack. She lay back against the seat and closed her eyes, as if to let the words come to her and then she abandoned herself to writing. Stories had always come easily to her, right from when she was a little girl, when she would make sets with her dolls and come up with fantastic adventures that delighted her siblings, adult family and friends alike. Growing up, she filled countless black notepads with short and long stories. At age 50, Emma would probably say that it was her imagination that kept her going and gave her hope. Her characters were complex, in each novel, she tried to unravel the mysteries that she found in human life and relationships and after all those years, there was still so much to learn and explore, so much to give. She was one of Britain’s most accomplished living authors, but fame had not changed her, she wrote with the same passion, that need to create that came from deep inside her and was still there, very much alive, like a burning fire.

Some forty minutes after the train had departed, as the coffee trolley passed by her, Emma raised her eyes from her notepad for the first time since leaving Glasgow station and noticed a young man sitting across from her, a few rows down. He had a large worn-out rucksack by his feet and another backpack on the seat next to his, his jeans were as faded as his bags. ‘He’s probably a hiker’, Emma thought to herself and just as she was going to turn back to her notes, he lifted his gaze, meeting hers and he smiled at her. She smiled back, feeling a little guilty, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. Maybe she had been staring. After all, he was something to look at and not in an ordinary way, she realised, just as she liked it. She went back to her writing and he turned to the magazine he had been reading. Then, not long after, the young man leaned towards Emma’s direction and asked her where she was heading. She heard him, but looked behind her to confirm that he was talking to her.
‘Glencoe’, Emma said eventually, ‘how about you?’
‘Me, too, actually. I’ve got some work in the area. Are you staying in one of the hotels’, he asked in return and as he said this he moved closer to her and sat on the row opposite hers.
‘No, at some friends’ house.’
‘That’s nice. I always feel that I live out of my rucksack, between hotel rooms.’
‘You travel a lot, then?’

Although Emma usually preferred keeping to herself during journeys, she found that she welcomed the conversation with this stranger.
‘Most of the time, I do. I guess I could’ve opted for travelling less, but I was available, so it just turned out like that.’
‘And what do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I don’t mind at all. I’m a nature photographer.’
‘Well, you’re in the right place, if I may say so.’
‘Indeed, if I ever chose a place to settle down, this part of Scotland would be it, I think.’

Emma smiled, more to herself, than him. There had been a time when she thought she would stay there, too. He must have noticed that Emma had turned to her own thoughts because for some time, they stayed in silence.

When Emma realised she’d put a stop to their dialogue, she focused on him again and asked him how long he was staying in Glencoe.
‘It depends, really’, he replied, ‘my next assignment is only in a month’s time, so I may stay here for that time or go back home and spend some time with my family before heading off again.’
‘I see. Where’s your next assignment taking you?’
‘I’ll be working in the Norwegian fiords. Have you ever been?’
‘No, it must be beautiful.’
‘Yes, that pretty much describes it – beautiful, peaceful, little touched by man, all in all, my kind of world.’

Emma was quite surprised by this last remark and found herself looking directly into the stranger’s eyes, wondering about this curious young man.
He smiled at her; and again she thought how everything about him was pleasant to look at. Although she could tell from his accent that he was from Southern England, he did not look it. He had longish, curly black hair, eyes like the mid-blue Irish sea and a full mouth, just how lips and a mouth should be. He was obviously young, much younger than she was anyway, but he transmitted such inner peace, which usually one only finds in older people. People her age, she thought nostalgically, unlike herself.
‘Are you staying long’, he asked after a while.
‘I’ll be staying for about a month, too.’
‘If you’re staying in the area, maybe we should go out for coffee or lunch, when you’re free’, he suggested.
‘I’d like that,’ she heard herself reply.
‘Good. And are you here for work or leisure?’
‘Well, I write, so work. I mean, obviously I could be on a break from writing, but I’m not, though I always feel like I’m on holidays when I’m here.’

Suddenly, Emma felt self-aware. She was conscious that he was not simply looking at her because they were talking; it was more like he was trying to read her or something.

‘And do you come here often,’ he asked.
‘I’ve been coming here for twenty years. It’s my second home. I guess I wouldn’t miss anything if I moved here today.’
‘It is a great place.’
They talked some more before he went back to his seat and just before they’d reached the station he asked her number so that he could phone her.
‘I may be busy in the next couple of evenings, but I will definitely call you this week’, he reassured her.
‘Ok,’ she replied, not quite believing him, despite herself, ‘well, enjoy your stay.’
‘You, too and see you soon.’
‘Goodbye now.’

As they walked away from each other, Emma heard him shouting. She turned around and waited for him to walk to where she was.

‘We never… I’m Christian’, he said, offering his hand.
‘Oh, I’m Emma’, she replied, reaching out for his hand.

He looked into her eyes, a wide smile on his face and he held her hand for longer than it might be considered appropriate. She could not turn her eyes from his, she felt an energy in her body, a familiarity towards a man she had not seen before that evening and she knew he felt it, too. He squeezed her hand a little tighter, rubbed the skin with his thumb and then, as if reluctant, he was off.

Emma stayed on the platform watching him go, overwhelmed by a feeling she had never felt before, of really seeing someone, of knowing she would be able to tell anything he would ask. She realised she felt a little sad.

That night, later in bed, she said his name out loud.

Christian.

She might as well be evoking him.

Emma wondered if he might call, like he promised. She wanted him to call and as she closed her eyes and sleep overcame her, his eyes, a warmth in her chest and a feeling of hope where the last thing she felt.