Nobody talks on the 6:14 northbound. The commuters board with thermoses and damp umbrellas, claim the same seats they claimed the day before, and watch the river silver over in the first grey light.
Noah always sat in Car Four, third row from the rear door, left window. It was the only seat where the radiator didn't rattle when the train crossed the iron viaduct.
On a Tuesday in late October, he noticed a slip of cream paper tucked behind the brass ticket clip on the seat ahead of him. Someone had torn the wide bottom margin from a novel and written a single sentence in dark fountain ink:
"If you are sitting here on the morning run, tell me whether the red crane is still moored by the grain silos."
Noah looked out the window as the train slowed past the docks. The crane was gone; in its place floated a blue tugboat named Halcyon. Smiling to himself, he uncapped his pen.