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Chapter Text

Hellow! Wölfi is back with an very niceru project I will do for the first time alone. I did made an similar project 2 years ago but in cooperation with an friend. This time, I will do it alone. So what is it? It is an Advent Calendar, because I wanted to do something cozy for December and placed my idea for an Broadchurch Pianolipp AU in the background and got the idea of a Leoklein Polar express AU

So stay tuned for every day of a new chapter and wish me luck that I will get through it xd Taggs can be updated, will probably do references but without explanation of them. I think that's for this project more interesting than everything other. So, I hope you have fun to read.

Please consider that English is not my first language, if there are any errors I'm very sorry :3

Chapter Text

The snow was so thick that you could barely see anything. Tingens' platform was also covered in snow, and he was standing in it up to his knees. A young man, estimated to be around 22 years old, was just making his way to this platform. As he made his way there, the old steam locomotive, a PM-class N-1 No. 1225 (built in 1941), was already driving into Tingen station. It was one of the few remaining copies from that time. It was also special that they didn't bring him to Tingen every day. This was the Winter Express, a train that only ran during the Christmas season, taking a journey to the north of the Kingdom of Loen. Klein Moretti, the man we had just estimated to be 22 years old, stood beside her, dressed neatly in the dark blue uniform of the Winter Express. He was early, as always. Maybe a little too early, but in the first December nights, he thought it was appropriate. The Winter Express ran only once a year, and those who were lucky enough to be part of this wonder took their task seriously. So Klein waited there for his travelers, whom he was allowed to greet for this year's trip. It was every year the same, a conductor would wait for his guests and then greet them. Then it usually went quickly with signing off on tickets, the guests board, and he and another employee take care of the larger pieces of luggage that are brought to the travelers' respective rooms. Because this train departs on December 1 and its final stop is not until December 24, it is very normal for guests to spend the night in a compartment. However, there are also occasional guests who just ride along without getting to the final destination and then get off in the first cities on the way. Klein exhaled before pulling his gloves a bit tighter over his palm so they wouldn't slip off and give him cold hands. Punctuality, calmness, reliability. Three words that accompanied him like the rails accompany the train. The train made a loud noise that everyone has heard before when standing at a train station waiting for trains. Although...this train was special. Klein's gaze swept over the station before he took in the words of the people who would soon become his passengers. Klein opened the door to the compartment before he took his clipboard and a pen to note down the respective passengers. As a group formed around the young conductor, he briefly looked at the group before nodding and starting to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to this year's Winter Express journey. From Tingen, we will take our train north to North Borough. This will be the final stop of this journey and the destination of the Winter Express. The Christmas celebration takes place in North Borough. There, dear passengers, you will have enough time to see your family and fellow travelers. Before they board, I will examine their tickets. My employee will take her to the compartment and her compartment room. Please bear with us for a moment, we don't have many workers on board right now, so we have to split the time a bit and keep it short. I will give you more information again in the coming days. If there are any problems, come to me or other staff members, we will try our best to help you," the young man clapped his hands and smiled gently. "Okay, then we'll move on to ticket control. Please line up before I check your tickets.", Klein stood next to the entrance of the compartment and prepared a clipboard and pen. Then the inspection began. Klein checked every passenger, punched the ticket, and searched the individuals. Then he arrived at the second-to-last person who had another passenger with them. Klein looked at the young woman. The young woman is an exceptionally beautiful young woman with emerald green eyes and smooth blonde hair. She was dressed in a green silk dress, holding a brown old suitcase in one hand, while her other hand, also in a glove as it was really too cold without one, held a leash. On this leash was a golden retriever puppy, who looked small with big eyes. The puppy wore a gold collar with a small bag around her waist. Klein looked at the lady before speaking. "Good morning Miss Hall. As I see you arrived here well and your dog." said Klein softly before scratching off the name "Audrey Hall" on the list and then looking at the puppy before looking at the lady again. "Yes, we had a good trip. We've been here in Tingen for a few days now. I hope it's no problem if I bring Susie along," the lady asked politely. Klein shook his head before writing down the dog's name, after Audrey's name. "But no, if our passengers want to bring their pets, we have no problem with that. You never know how important animals are to people. That's why they can enter freely. Your ticket, please," Klein asked, and Audrey handed the ticket to the conductor. Klein set aside his clipboard for a moment before he picked up his stapler and looked at the ticket. Then his eyes drifted back to Audrey before he began to tack the card. Audrey was probably very surprised when she got her card back and saw that a J was stapled to the ticket. Klein picked up his clipboard again before showing the other that she could get in with her dog. Audrey nodded quickly before getting in with Susie. The other employee who worked with Klein in the Express took the young Audrey's suitcase and brought her to her compartment. Klein looked around a bit before glancing at his pocket watch. He whistled softly when he noticed they were already a minute late. Then he looked at his list before noticing that exactly one passenger was still missing. He glanced at the clock again before quickly getting up. He still couldn't use his lantern to signal that they could leave. The Winter Express always waited for its passengers. Even if they are late. Kleins brown eyes, which had a slight golden undertone, looked around. But he didn't see anyone else at the station, and he didn't hear any noise. It was quiet, and only the white snow fell softly to the ground. Kleins gaze sighed as his eyes drifted back to the old pocket watch. Then this path disappeared, and he glided into the sky. The snow fell from the thick clouds, and without light, you could hardly see anything here. It was already late afternoon and evening was approaching. However, there was something Klein suddenly saw. Through the cloud cover, a glimpse of a star was visible. A very specific star. The North Star and suddenly there were steps. Quick, hasty steps and heavy breathing. Klein's gaze immediately turned to the platform and there was the last passenger. It was a 1.80 meter tall man. He had only hastily wrapped a scarf around his neck, while his coat was only half closed and slipped out of the hastily tied loop during the quick run. The man wore a simple white shirt underneath, and as the man rushed at him like a snowstorm, he slowly recognized more of the man. The man looked young, he estimated his age, even though he suspected that the taller man had long, black, slightly violet-shimmering hair. He wore red gloves and carried only a shoulder bag. No suitcase or anything else that big. It looked as if the man had just returned from a trip. Klein should have been right, because when the man in front of him stumbled to a stop, Klein quickly realized that he had just pulled his ticket, now somewhat crumpled, out of his pocket quickly and clumsily. So the other man assumed he must have come from another track of another train. "Excuse me for my delay, my train decided to make a much too long stop in a village on its way," the man's voice sounded soft, light, almost flattering. Klein just shook his head. He clutched his clipboard a bit tighter. "In the end, the Winter Express waits for its passengers and doesn't leave without them. Your ticket, please," he replied before the last passenger nodded and handed him the crumpled ticket. Klein took it and saw through a small corner of the ticket that there were ink stains on it. Upon a quick glance at the man's fingers, one could quickly recognize or rather conclude that the man must be a poet or at least a writer. This would also explain the little luggage. Then, after a brief consideration, he tacked something onto the ticket before returning it to the poet. He then checked off the last passenger of this journey and looked at the man. He only noticed now how those green irises were looking at him. The green looked like the green of the fir needles of the snow-covered fir trees of Tingen. Klein cleared his throat. "Welcome to the Winter Express," he said with the voice he had trained for official greetings. A warm but controlled voice. The man lifted his head. His eyes looked at Klein before he nodded gently. And somehow he looked like he belonged in a poem rather than on a train. "Thank you for waiting, Mr...?" the young man asked, slightly desperate, looking for a name tag to address the other person. "Klein Moretti, Mister Mitchell," he replied kindly before showing the other person that he could get on. "I wish you a pleasant journey," he finally said before taking his lantern. Leonard followed and got on, but before he disappeared, he turned around once more, snow in his eyelashes, as well as glittering star crystals in his black hair, breath visible, expression softer than before. "It's nice and warm in there," he said calmly. "You shouldn't stand in the snow for too long, you know? Conductor or not conductor." Klein slightly opened his mouth, then closed it again. No one had ever pointed this out to him, especially not in a flirtatious tone. Not in this tone, anyway. He had to pull himself together not to smile. "Thanks for the hint," he said stiffly. "But it's my job to supervise the boarding. Leonard nodded, a spark of amused understanding in his eyes.
"Then we'll probably see each other later," and with that, he disappeared into the warm interior of the train. Klein watched the man before he safely stowed the clipboard away and glanced around briefly once more. He then looked at the locomotive in front and swung his lantern. The train whistled, and then the wheels began to move. Klein climbed up the entrance, and the train slowly pulled out of the station. Then, however, he noticed something lying at the station. A hat. He remembered. It was Leonard's hat. Quickly, he jumped down from the entrance and ran to the hat. Quickly, he grabbed it before he ran after the train, which was speeding up. He held the lantern and the hat tightly, stumbled, staggered, but managed to keep his balance and ran on. Then, however, he took a strong push, held the lantern with his teeth, and stretched his hand to the handle of the wagon and managed to grab it. A quick jump and the conductor made his way to the boarding platform. He then turned off the lamp and looked back at the station, which quickly disappeared in the snowstorm. The snow rushed past him. The cold crystals flew into the young conductor's face before he entered. He hung the lamp on the handle before he looked at his hat and cleared the snow from it. Klein's gaze drifted into the first wagon. People were just taking their compartments, and so was Leonard. Only now did Klein notice how fast his heart was beating. Not just from the run. The poet Mitchell... he had something unsettling. Something Klein couldn't name. He looked down at the hat. A simple dark fedora hat, and yet it felt strangely personal to bring it back. He sighed softly and adjusted the uniform. Duty first. Everything else later. Time to sign off and then check the compartments.

(/￣ー￣)/~~☆’.･.･:★’.･.･:☆

Klein entered the compartment and grabbed the speaker. He cleared his throat before taking the speaker and then speaking. "Once again, a warm welcome to the Winter Express. Our next stop is Frostwell. Please make yourself comfortable and enjoy the ride. If you have any questions, please ask the train staff," Klein explained before putting the speaker back. Klein grabbed the door to the compartment and pressed the handle before entering the warm interior. He closed the door behind him before getting up. He had remembered that the poet had disappeared in one of the last rooms. Klein went past the other halfway through. He occasionally looked through the small windows into the compartment rooms and discovered all sorts of people. From solo travelers, to a mother with children, a small family, an elderly man, or a married couple. There were so many different people here, which made the Winter Express so special. He stopped just as his employee was helping Audrey with her luggage. Susie, the golden retriever, jumped around her owner happily, while Audrey put her smaller things away. Klein watched the two of them with amusement before he continued on his way. He arrived at Leonard's cabin before knocking on the door. Then he entered the cabin. "Mr. Mitchell, I think you lost your hat," Klein said kindly and handed the poet, who was leaning on a notebook, the hat. The poet looked up, put down his pen, and thanked him. "Leonard. Call me Leonard, it sounds better. You don't always have to be so formal. So don't be. I'm not that well-known or famous. But thank you for bringing me my hat," the green eyes looked into the brown ones. Klein quickly turned his gaze away, letting his eyes wander. The compartment was one of the smaller ones, but it was big enough for two people. The curtains were a soft fir green and had Christmas patterns on them, but that was normal for the whole room decor, everything was very warm and beautifully decorated for Christmas. The table in front of the window was covered with two notebooks and a book about many different stories. The other's notebook was open, and it had poems in a very beautiful handwriting. Otherwise, the compartment was pretty empty compared to Audrey's compartment. "That's my job as a conductor," he replied to the other before he saw Leonard's gaze. He looked slightly encouraged by the other and, looking briefly and intently at his pocket watch, he was persuaded by the man's slight smile to sit down for a moment. Klein sat stiffly on the padded seat, his hands neatly folded on his knees, as if he needed to remind himself that he was only supposed to be here for a short time. Leonard placed his hat on the windowsill, turned his fountain pen between his fingers, and leaned forward a bit without making it seem too intrusive. "I hope I'm not distracting you from your duties?" he asked, his voice mild, almost innocent, yet with an undertone that Klein did not miss. Something about his manner always seemed to carry a small, barely perceptible smile. "No, no... just a moment.", Klein cleared his throat, briefly glancing at the passing winter landscape that was drifting by the window. "I just wanted to make sure you have everything you need." "Hmm," Leonard tapped thoughtfully with his pen on the notebook. "I think...all I need right now is some inspiration," his gaze drifted back to Klein, unobtrusive but attentive. "And that usually comes most easily when you have interesting company," Klein blinked, confused. "Interesting... company?" "Of course," Leonard ran a strand of his black hair out of his forehead as if it were completely normal. "They have a very calm aura. For a poet, that's... remarkable," he said casually, almost as if he were commenting on the weather. But his eyes betrayed that he knew exactly what he was doing. Klein felt his ears warm up slightly and quickly turned his gaze to the window. "I'm just... used to talking to a lot of people. It's part of the job." "Mm," Leonard closed the notebook, laying his hands lightly on top of it. "But that doesn't mean everyone speaks like you," he leaned in slightly, so subtly that it seemed more like a natural movement. "Your voice fits this train. Warm. Calm. A little surprising, to be honest." "Surprising?" Klein asked, irritated but also curious. "In every way," Leonard leaned back again as if nothing had happened. "I expected a conductor on a train like this to be... strict. Or distant. But you seem to really listen," a slight smile. "That's rare." Klein didn't know exactly what to say. His fingers nervously sought the edge of his pocket watch, as if he needed to make sure it was still there. "I'm just trying to do my job." "Most people do," Leonard raised an eyebrow slightly. "But you make them... attentive. That's a difference," the room seemed to grow quieter for a second, only the soft rumble of the tracks in the background. Klein felt the words resonating within him, a little too warm, a little too direct, and yet so wrapped up that he didn't know if it was a compliment, a statement, or... something else. Leonard picked up his pen again, opened his notebook and turned it slightly, so that Klein accidentally saw the title of the poem he had started: "Begegnung im Winterlicht"(Encounter in the winter light) Klein blinked. "You're writing that now?" Leonard smiled softly without looking up. "Sometimes you find inspiration faster than you think." His gaze lifted briefly, a green spark, warm, soft, a bit curious. "Maybe, Mr. Moretti, you're in the right place at the right time." Klein felt his heart beat faster for a moment. And it was impossible for him to tell whether Leonard was flirting or just speaking the way poets spoke. Maybe both. Maybe neither. But something about it didn't let Klein settle down. A gentle but definite jolt ran through the train as the wheels glided over an iced switch. The compartment swayed, not strongly, but enough that Klein involuntarily sought support. His hand slipped off the cushion, and he tipped forward a bit. Before he could catch himself, Leonard's hand was there. Quickly, but not hastily. Gently, but not hesitantly. His fingers closed around Klein's forearm, warm despite the cold he still had from the platform. "Careful," Leonard muttered, almost inaudibly. Not playfully, not exaggerated. Just...close. Klein held his breath for a moment. He felt the warmth of the other through the fabric of his uniform, felt his own fingers cramp up briefly before he quickly straightened up again. Leonard let him go immediately, as if he hadn't really held the touch at all. "Excuse me," Klein said, somewhere between embarrassed and confused. "That was—I would have—" "Just normal," Leonard interrupted quietly, with that same small, barely perceptible smile. "Trains sometimes do what they want. Especially in the winter.", he smoothed out a barely perceptible crease shadow from his jacket as if this were the most natural way to take the tension out of the air. But his eyes glided to Klein, probing, gentle, warm. "But I reckon," he continued, tapping his pen lightly against the notebook, "that even a winter express isn't prepared for a conductor walking in who disrupts the atmosphere." "I...don't mix anything up at all," he heard himself sounding defensive, and that only made it worse. Leonard tilted his head. Not mockingly. Not arrogantly. Just...as if he was considering a particularly interesting detail. "Well," he said quietly, "the compartment was quiet before you came," his gaze drifted to Klein's hands still clutching the pocket watch. "And now...it's different." Both felt difficult at the same time. Outside, a white landscape flew by, blurry fir trees, frosty plains, a sky full of snow, and for a moment, the world seemed to get smaller. Only this compartment, only this light, only the two of them. Leonard looked back at his notebook, but his voice was a little softer, almost familiar. "I'd like to ask you something," Klein straightened himself unconsciously. "You asked me? What?" Leonard tapped the paper twice with his pen, thinking for a moment as if he wanted to open the right window so the question wouldn't make the room too loud. "You seem," he began slowly, "to see more than you say." Klein frowned. "I don't understand-" "Oh, yes," Leonard interrupted calmly. "You observed every passenger when they boarded. Not suspicious. Not dutiful. But...alert. As if every person carried a story you didn't want to lose." Leonard continued more quietly, "I'm just wondering...", a tiny smile, almost invisible. "You see so much. But do you let anyone see you?", the question hung in the air, warm, serious, intimate. Too intimate. Klein breathed in quietly and felt his heart pounding uncomfortably loudly in his ears. No one had ever spoken to him so directly, so...transparently. He wanted to answer, anything, then suddenly outside there was a faint clinking of metal. A distant bell, announcing that the train was crossing a valley. Leonard looked briefly at the window, then back at him. "You don't have to answer", he said calmly. "Sometimes silence is more honest." Klein lowered his gaze. His fingers closed tighter around the pocket watch, as if he needed to hold on to it to avoid losing his balance completely. Leonard pushed the notebook a bit closer, not much, just enough for Klein to read the freshly written verse. A single sentence: "Some encounters are like the first snow, quiet, unexpected, and yet impossible to overlook." Klein raised his head and Leonard looked at him. Not demanding. Not pressing. Just honest. Maybe too honest. The train rumbled on through the winter landscape, as if it had understood that something had begun. Something small. Something delicate. Something that Klein couldn't categorize yet. But he felt it. And Leonard knew it. As Klein stood up again and adjusted his uniform, he didn't notice until he was walking to the door that delicate ice crystals had grown at the bottom edge of the window, thin, but in a nearly ornamental shape. A star. Or something that looked like one. He stopped for a moment. It hadn't been there before. Leonard said nothing, but when Klein turned halfway to him, the poet caught a knowing little smile. Not arrogant, not mysterious, more like he was seeing something beautiful that he could turn into words right away. "The Winter Express is a special train, isn't it?" Leonard asked quietly. Klein cleared his throat, brought himself back to his professional stance. "He...has his quirks." "I thought so." Leonard kept flipping through his notebook, without taking his eyes off Klein. "I'm looking forward to the rest of the trip." Klein felt a hard-to-explain pang in his chest, not unpleasant, just...new. He nodded briefly, opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, which was illuminated by warm lantern light. As soon as the door behind him had closed, a gentle gust of wind lifted a thin snowflake from the window sill, even though the window was closed. Klein paused. The train rumbled on through the winter darkness, as if it were smiling.

Chapter Text

Morning dawned on the Winter Express like a quiet secret. A silvery veil lay over the windows, delicate frost had spread in delicate patterns, as if someone had drawn flowers from ice on the glass. The train moved steadily through a :b:grayish-blue landscape where the sky was barely distinguishable from the snow-covered fields. Klein breathed in the cold air that entered the corridor whenever he opened one of the doors to the connecting area. His breath formed a small white cloud, only a second before the pleasant warmth of the compartment swallowed it up again. He loved this moment. The transition from the frosty outside to the warm inside. This quiet beginning of a new day full of movement, tasks, and encounters. With his usual care, he walked down the aisle, knocked on doors, asked about the passengers' wishes, wished them a good morning. The people on the Winter Express often had a special mood in the morning, quieter, slower, but also more honest. As if they only showed who they really were in this first hour. He stopped in front of a door with a slightly crooked brass sign, cabin 17. Leonard's cabin. Klein raised his hand to knock, but his fingers hovered in the air for a moment. He told himself he was only doing this to check if the poet needed extra blankets or if everything was okay. After all, it was his job. He knocked twice, softly but firmly. A muffled rustling was heard, then a "come in" that was still slightly obscured by sleep. When Klein opened the door, his eyes fell on Leonard, who was already sitting, although his hair was still untidy and the blanket had slipped slightly over his shoulders. He had a notebook in his hand, but it was closed, so quickly that it almost looked like he had hidden it. "Good morning, Mr... Leonard," Klein corrected himself in time. He kept his gaze neutral enough not to linger too long on the disheveled, surprisingly gentle image before him. Leonard smiled. A sleepy, warm smile that felt like it belonged to this frosty morning. "Klein," he said softly. "Up this early?" "Duty calls," Klein replied, touching his hat. "I wanted to ask if everything was okay. Sometimes it gets a bit... windy in the northern sections." Leonard pulled the blanket a bit tighter around him. "Well, now that you mention it, it might be a bit cold in here. But I thought that was just the way it was. It's a winter express, after all." "It would almost be disappointing if I were sweating in here," Klein had to smile. He tried to hide it, but he hardly succeeded. "I can bring you a second blanket," he offered. "Or a hot water bottle. Some passengers prefer-" "Stay," Leonard interrupted suddenly. Not sharply. Not demanding. Just... calm. Almost casually. And yet the word struck Klein like an unexpected warm draft. Leonard corrected himself, tilting his head slightly: "I mean- you can stay for a short while. I wanted to thank you. For yesterday," his gaze became hard to decipher for a moment. "For the hat. And your company.", Klein nodded slowly.
He felt the familiar uncertainty creeping into his shoulders, the feeling that the poet was looking at him too often, too directly. That he was perceiving too much. "It was nothing special," he finally said. "Just part of my work." "Maybe," Leonard muttered, "but sometimes small things make a morning warmer." Klein didn't know what to say in response. He cleared his throat, seeking solace in his professionalism, which seemed surprisingly fragile today. "I'll bring you another blanket anyway," he said, a little too quickly. Leonard nodded, and his green eyes lost their sleepy haze for a brief moment. "I would be glad," Klein left the compartment again, but before he closed the door, he heard Leonard say something quietly, perhaps to himself, perhaps to Klein, perhaps to the morning. "And already the day writes its first line," the door clicked softly into the lock. Klein stood in the hallway for a moment, breathing shallowly. He didn't know exactly why. Maybe because Leonard pronounced every word as if it were more important than it should be. Maybe because Klein found it unusual to be looked at so attentively by someone. Or maybe because the winter express felt warmer today than usual. With that, Klein set out to work on his daily routine. The Winter Express continued to plow through the vast, snow-covered landscape, and the hours of the day began to follow one another in a quiet, pleasant rhythm. Klein went about his work as usual, checking tickets, giving information, explaining to small children why the snow was swirling around the windows as if it were in a hurry, or bringing them something to play with. And yet, at some point, Klein noticed that his thoughts kept drifting away. Not strongly. Just small moments. A word, a sentence, an unexpected image, and suddenly he saw those green eyes again, which had looked at him so intently in the morning, as if he were a particularly interesting paragraph in a book. He didn't know where Leonard's admiration for him came from, or what he found so good about him. He pushed it away, of course. It would almost be disappointing if I were sweating in here," Klein had to smile. He tried to hide it, but he hardly succeeded. "I can bring you a second blanket," he offered. "Or a hot water bottle. Some passengers prefer-" "Stay," Leonard interrupted suddenly. Not sharply. Not demanding. Just... calm. Almost casually. And yet the word struck Klein like an unexpected warm draft. Leonard corrected himself, tilting his head slightly: "I mean- you can stay for a short while. I wanted to thank you. For yesterday," his gaze became hard to decipher for a moment.It would almost be disappointing if I were sweating in here," Klein had to smile. He tried to hide it, but he hardly succeeded. "I can bring you a second blanket," he offered. "Or a hot water bottle. Some passengers prefer-" "Stay," Leonard interrupted suddenly. Not sharply. Not demanding. Just... calm. Almost casually. And yet the word struck Klein like an unexpected warm draft. Leonard corrected himself, tilting his head slightly: "I mean- you can stay for a short while. I wanted to thank you. For yesterday," his gaze became hard to decipher for a moment."I would be glad," Klein left the compartment again, but before he closed the door, he heard Leonard say something quietly, perhaps to himself, perhaps to Klein, perhaps to the morning. "And already the day writes its first line," the door clicked softly into the lock. Klein stood in the hallway for a moment, breathing shallowly. He didn't know exactly why. Maybe because Leonard pronounced every word as if it were more important than it should be. Maybe because Klein found it unusual to be looked at so attentively by someone. Or maybe because the winter express felt warmer today than usual. With that, Klein set out to work on his daily routine.It would almost be disappointing if I were sweating in here," Klein had to smile. He tried to hide it, but he hardly succeeded. "I can bring you a second blanket," he offered. "Or a hot water bottle. Some passengers prefer-" "Stay," Leonard interrupted suddenly. Not sharply. Not demanding. Just... calm. Almost casually. And yet the word struck Klein like an unexpected warm draft. Leonard corrected himself, tilting his head slightly: "I mean- you can stay for a short while. I wanted to thank you. For yesterday," his gaze became hard to decipher for a moment.The Winter Express continued to plow through the vast, snow-covered landscape, and the hours of the day began to follow one another in a quiet, pleasant rhythm. Klein went about his work as usual, checking tickets, giving information, explaining to small children why the snow was swirling around the windows as if it were in a hurry, or bringing them something to play with. And yet, at some point, Klein noticed that his thoughts kept drifting away. Not strongly. Just small moments. A word, a sentence, an unexpected image, and suddenly he saw those green eyes again, which had looked at him so intently in the morning, as if he were a particularly interesting paragraph in a book. He didn't know where Leonard's admiration for him came from, or what he found so good about him. He pushed it away, of course. He was a conductor. He was professional. He had a job to do and not to constantly hang around a passenger he had only known for a day. But the winter express was different that day... or he was the one who was different. In the train's lounge, the small, cozy waiting car, a gramophone played softly. A wintry melody, something between a waltz and a winter classic, filled the room as some passengers sat in soft armchairs and drank hot cocoa. Klein thought it was probably White Christmas by Bing Crosby, but he wasn't really listening that closely. The windows were slightly fogged, and a child had drawn little stars with his finger. Klein stopped to take a look around. "Would you like a cup?" asked the older lady, who was just telling stories to two children and holding a steaming pot of cocoa. "Oh, no, thank you. I... I'm working. But thank you for the offer." "All the more reason to take a break," she smiled knowingly. Klein kept walking before the conversation became too friendly. He wasn't very good at dealing with unexpected warmth, or unexpected attention. Especially when it came from a poet. Klein barely audible sighed before he also briefly looked outside. The winter landscape passed them by. The snow was deep in the wild nature and covered everything. A small village was barely visible due to the heavy snow. Thousands of snowflakes continued to trickle down to the ground. As the brown, gentle gaze admired the ice crystals on the window, a small pack of wolves ran alongside the tracks and tried to catch up to the steam locomotive, but their path split when the train crossed a large stone bridge that looked beautiful from every angle. The bridge spanned a large chasm above which was a large, cold waterfall. Much was iced over, while elsewhere the roaring water cascaded down into the gorge. Many animals, like a hawk family or a rabbit family, also lived in the canyon. However, Klein turned away from the sight again, which was just one of its highlights; just the view of the gorge was worth a photo. The afternoon passed, and as the snowstorm outside grew more intense, Leonard found himself in the panorama car. Klein saw him only from a distance as he opened the door to the next car. Leonard sat alone, his legs crossed, his notebook on his lap. His gaze wasn't on the pages, but on the window, on the white flakes dancing against the glass and breaking the light of the lanterns into small sparks. He seemed to hear words in silence that others couldn't perceive. At times he would lift the pen, write a line, cross it out, and write again. The man thought hard over and over again, gazing out at the snowy winter landscape through the green pine needles. He raised his head once, just briefly, and it seemed as though his eyes were scanning the car, searching for something. Or someone. Klein, who had almost disappeared into the next compartment, suddenly stopped, feeling a strange stab in his chest. He didn't know if Leonard had seen him. Or if he just wanted to believe it. Later, he met Audrey, who came out of the dining car beaming, accompanied by a happily panting Susie. "Little one!" she exclaimed excitedly. "It feels like being in a snow globe in here! I've got so many ideas - oh, and the writer from number 17 told me he was looking for inspiration too. Isn't that exciting?" Unconsciously, Klein stiffened. "You spoke...?" "Of course!" Audrey said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "He's very friendly. A little dreamy, maybe. But the way he talks...", she paused for a moment, studying Klein attentively. "Do you know him well?" "No," he said too quickly. "But you look like him," Audrey laughed, completely innocently, slapped him on the arm, and walked away. Klein sighed. Susie swished past him and for a moment trod on his boots before following her owner again.

(〇*>∀<)ゞ★☆

The day on the Winter Express was busy, but in a pleasant, almost festive calm. The scent of fresh pastry wafted from the dining car, accompanied by the occasional laughter of a family or the whispers of a couple who spoke of red noses from the cold air.In between, cups clinked, steaming tea was served, and somewhere someone played a soft tune on a harmonica that was barely louder than the rhythm of the rails. Klein worked with focus, but his thoughts kept drifting to a compartment at the end of the aisle, to green eyes and a voice that made even a simple "Good morning" sound poetic. Toward evening, when the sun had already disappeared behind a wall of snow, Klein walked through the cars one last time before he would take his break. The lamps along the ceiling bathed the train in warm, amber light, casting cozy shadows along the carpets. It was that hour when everything became quieter. Most passengers were resting, reading, or gazing dreamily out the windows at the soft falling snowflakes. Klein stopped in front of a door. Again, compartment 17. Not on purpose. At least, that's what he told himself. The corridor just led this way. And it was his duty to check. He raised his hand to knock, but hesitated. A sound came from inside. Soft, floating, almost like a whisper. Then he recognized it. Leonard's voice. But not in the form of a conversation, it was a murmur, a rhythm, a half-loud speaking, like someone who checks words before writing them on paper. Klein stopped, not close enough to really listen, but close enough that the words brushed against him like warm air from an open window. "...the silence of winter writes itself in breath and heart...and somewhere...between snow and rails...a step that changes the morning..." Klein felt his breath catch. It could be coincidental, even had to be. He wanted to turn away, to keep going, but his feet didn't seem to fully obey the gentle magnetic field of the voice. "...a look that stays...even when you keep going..." Klein blinked. His fingers tingled uncomfortably warm. He should knock, or leave, or…do something. Before he could decide, the door creaked open a crack, just a tiny moment, just enough to give him away. Leonard raised his head. Klein looked guilty just as if he had been caught stealing Christmas cookies. "Oh," said Leonard, without sounding surprised. "Klein." Klein opened his mouth, closed it again, then cleared his throat. "I just wanted to…check in. As always." Leonard's smile appeared slowly, warm and soft like the lamp behind him, which cast a golden glow on his hair. In the dim light, Klein only now noticed what a clear and gentle face Leonard has. Because the other was now so close to his face, he saw much more. "Everything is fine," Leonard said, his voice a little lower, a little rougher from the writing. "Or, to be more precise, now that you're here, even more than that." Klein didn't know if this was a joke. Or a poetic sentence. Or both. So he decided to remain cautiously neutral. "I... am disturbing you?" "Maybe," Leonard replied, but then ended the line with a gentle, almost amused tone: "But only the poem. Not me." Klein felt that warmth in his face again. He unconsciously smoothed out his uniform, a reflex that always came when he felt uncertain."Then...if you're sure everything is okay, I'll continue," Leonard said. "Is it snowing very hard outside?" Leonard interrupted before Klein could drift off to the door. "Pretty hard," Klein replied. "The next sections of the track are snowy, but they're safe." "Mm...," Leonard took a step closer, not threatening, but rather soft, as if he was moving in a different, slower time. "I like snowstorms. They make you think the world is standing still for a moment." "I don't like them much," Klein admitted honestly. "Snowstorms...make me nervous and can have fatal consequences. Especially when it comes to the train." Leonard looked at him. Soft. Almost too soft. Just attentive. Like someone writing a poem and capturing the exact moment that touches them. As Klein walked down the hallway, it snowed harder outside.
And for a fraction of a second, he wondered if it was really the wind that was making the train vibrate, or if the Winter Express was just a little more meaningful tonight. Klein quickly went to the lounge to get the pot of hot tea.When he had everything, he went back to the other man in his compartment with the tray, the can, and the two cups. The tea was steaming in the small pot as Klein walked back through the aisle. The scent of chamomile enveloped him, warm, soothing, a gentle contrast to the icy gusts that rattled the windows outside.
With each step, the light became softer, golden, and the snow in front of the train denser, almost like a curtain that turned the evening into its own little world. When he stood in front of compartment 17 again, he knocked briefly, and the door opened almost immediately, as if Leonard had been waiting for this moment. "Ah," he said, his voice a warm, deep sound. "You really came back." "I have tea," Klein replied matter-of-factly, although his heart wasn't. Leonard took a step to the side. "Then it would be impolite to send you away again," the compartment was quiet, just a small table, the notebook, the lamp, which cast a gentle circle of light over the ceiling and the bench. Outside, another snowflake drifted across the windowpane as winter watched the two men with curious eyes. Klein set the cups down and poured. His hands were calm and orderly, but his heart was beating just a little too fast. Leonard sat across from him, his fingers loosely around the cup, as if he was already packing up Klein's every move in his memory. "I didn't know which one you really wanted," Klein began. "Chamomile is perfect," Leonards gaze wandered to him, not probing, but soft. "They sound like a cup of tea brought by someone who's thinking," Klein swallowed, cleared his throat, and sidestepped the comment by taking a sip from his cup. Warmth slowly spread through him. He wasn't sure if it was from the tea or Leonard's words. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The train rumbled quietly over the tracks, a soothing, familiar sound. You could hear the wind gently singing against the windows and the muffled metallic groan of the winter express as it struggled through the snow. But here in the compartment, it was quiet. A silence that wasn't cold, but full of meaning. Leonard looked out the window and smiled. "You know... snow always makes conversations more honest. It's like it exposes everything soft." He looked back at Klein. "Thank you for staying," Klein opened his mouth to protest that he was only here because of his work, but the words didn't get out. Because Leonard didn't see him as staff. Not as a conductor. But simply as Klein. "Gern," he finally said quietly, almost surprising himself. Leonard leaned a bit closer, his elbows resting loosely on the table. "Then we'll drink together," a delicate, almost playful tone. "The Winter Express and the fact that some encounters happen exactly when you don't expect them to," Klein said, tapping him on the shoulder. The soft clinking of the porcelain cups was the softest, most beautiful sound of the evening. They drank tea. They hardly spoke, but they didn't have to. Outside, the snow fell more heavily, and inside the compartment, time seemed to flow a little more slowly. And when Klein stood up later to continue, the winter express was no longer just a train. It was the beginning of something that felt like a secret verse, one that no one had yet spoken out loud.

Chapter Text

The morning in the Winter Express awakened in a way that felt more like a deep breath than actual daylight. Outside, a thick curtain of snow hung, muffling everything, the wind, the sounds of the rails, even the colors. The landscape consisted only of delicate shades of gray and white, so soft that they almost seemed unreal. It was quieter than usual inside the train. The warm lamps cast amber light on the carpeted floors, and somewhere far in the back, the soft clinking of cups could be heard, still muffled by the early hour. Klein was, as always, one of the first to wake up. He had slipped out of his small staff quarters early, thrown a coat over his uniform, and stepped out into the corridors, accompanied by the soothing hum of the heating. The air smelled of fresh wood, tea, and a hint of cinnamon. Apparently, someone in the dining car had already started mixing the first warm punch for the passengers. His boots made hardly any noise on the carpet as he walked along the corridors. It was routine: checking doors, inspecting windows, examining lamps. And yet, something was different this morning. Something in the air that was hard to name, perhaps brighter, calmer, but at the same time full of expectation. The snow outside fell thicker, slowly, heavily, like feathers settling on an endless lake. It almost seemed as if the train was floating through clouds. Klein stopped briefly at one of the windows and looked out. A white storm, and yet beautiful. A soft glow in the chaos. Maybe Leonard was right, snowstorms had something that brought the world to a standstill. The thought made Klein's heart beat a little faster, and almost automatically his gaze turned down the corridor, to a certain door that was still closed. Compartment 17. Leonard's compartment. He could have told himself that he was just looking out of habit. But that would have been a lie. Klein continued on his way and checked the last doors of the car when suddenly a soft, muffled rumble went through the train. Nothing dramatic, just a stronger jolt as the train slid over an icy spot on the tracks. But it was enough to make a light above him flicker. A gentle shadow darted across the wall. Then another. Almost like a breath. Klein raised his hand and touched the lamp's socket. Warm, but restless. "Hm... it's going to fail soon", he muttered more to himself. He took a step back, pulled out a small tool from his jacket pocket and prepared to tighten a few loose wires. Right at that moment, the train vibrated a second time, longer, more evenly. The snow outside was obviously pressing against the side walls. Klein stood up and listened. The Winter Express had its own sounds, its own rhythms, but sometimes...sometimes it seemed to almost respond. Before Klein could even think about it, he heard something, footsteps in the hallway. Slow, uneven, soft. Klein blinked and turned around. And there, framed by the diffuse snowlight of the window and the warm glow of the lamps, stood Leonard. Barefoot. With his hair tousled. In a soft, emerald green knit jacket that hung loosely over his shoulders. He still looked half-trapped in the world between sleep and wakefulness, but his eyes were bright as dew. He studied Klein for a moment, then the lamp, then Klein again. "Good morning", said Leonard, and his voice was so deep and velvety that Klein involuntarily held his breath for a second. "G-G-Good morning, Mr... Leonard", he corrected himself quickly. Leonard's mouth twitched. "You're up early." "Like every morning", Klein replied, gesturing slightly toward the lamp above him. "I wanted to check the electrical system. The storm is causing problems with the wiring." "I figured that." Leonard stepped closer, slowly, as if he needed to wake up. "The train moved tonight as if it were dreaming," Klein didn't know how to respond to this. Nevertheless, he smiled. "That's a... poetic description." "I'm afraid it happens automatically in a half-sleep," Leonard stopped, only two steps away. His eyes shone in the lamp light, green like winter forest moss. Klein raised his hand again to check the lamp's fuse... and suddenly heard a soft, barely perceptible crack behind him as the train hit another icy spot. The car swayed. Not strongly, but enough that Klein stumbled briefly. And Leonard, wide awake, as if he had only been waiting for this, moved reflexively forward. A hand on Klein's arm. One on his back. Warm. Gentle. A hint of sleep and tea and morning cold. "Careful," Leonard muttered. Klein stopped for a moment. Too close. Too awake. Too connected in a moment that should be ordinary, but wasn't. He found his voice only after a few seconds. "T-thanks. The snow is getting thicker, you can tell by the swaying." Leonard didn't let go of him right away. Only when Klein regained his position. Then he took a step back, without losing sight of the warmth entirely. "You should be careful," Leonard said softly. "The train might surprise you a second time." Klein blinked, irritated and slightly embarrassed. "Nothing's going to happen to me." "Hm," Leonard crossed his arms, but not in a dismissive way, more in a thoughtful way. "You say that, but yesterday I almost lost a poem. Today, almost you." A small smile. "I don't know if the Winter Express can handle more drama," Klein laughed to his own surprise. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor." "That surprises many," Leonard leaned against the wall next to him. The flickering lamp illuminated his face in warm waves. "Most people only see the poems. Not the person behind them," Klein wanted to respond, but at the same moment the lamp flickered more and went out completely for a heartbeat. Darkness. Only snowlight in the window. Leonard stood closer than Klein expected. This time it was a lot closer than the last time. Or maybe the moment of flickering just shifted everything. Klein cleared his throat and focused on the fuse again. "I just have to-" "Klein?" Leonard's voice was soft but deep. Almost a whisper. "You were very kind yesterday...with the tea," Klein paused. His fingers rested against the metal. "It was just my job." "No," Leonard's response came immediately. Too quickly and then softer: "No, it wasn't." Klein felt his heart beating inexplicably faster. "By the way, I wanted to show you...," Leonard took a deep breath, as if he were weighing how much he could say. "...a poem. Or the beginning of it. But I didn't want to be intrusive." "You don't seem intrusive," Klein said, and he surprised himself with how honest that sounded. "Good," Leonard muttered. "I actually wrote something that came to me yesterday...," Klein looked at him questioningly. Leonard ran a strand of hair from his forehead and smiled crookedly. "Maybe...I'd be happy to show you with a cup of tea. This time not as a conductor or as a guest with me. But simply…", he searched for a word. Finally found one. "…as Klein.", Klein stared at him, half confused, half suddenly warm to the fingertips. Then the lamp flickered on again. Bright, calm, steady. "Done," Klein muttered. But the moment between them remained. "So?", Leonard asked, quietly, warmly. "Do you… have time?", Klein knew his break was starting in five minutes. And he knew he had a few more steps to go before that. But he also knew that his feet had not carried him to this part of the train by chance that morning. "Yes," he said, almost whispering. "I think I have time." Leonard's smile became so soft that Klein briefly looked away, only because it felt too intense for a frosty morning. "Then I allow myself," said Leonard, "to make room already." He turned around, went in the direction of compartment 17, and opened the door, but not without turning around once more. As if he wanted to make sure Klein would follow him. Not as a conductor. But as Klein and somehow...he did.

꒰ঌ( ⌯’ ‘⌯)໒꒱

He followed the traveling poet into the train compartment. Now Klein wasn't sitting with Leonard as a conductor, no, today he was sitting there as Klein. As a regular person who was not on duty at the time. Leonard himself, however, was still standing and just got the same can from yesterday from the lounge. The only difference was probably the fresh porcelain cups the poet had taken. They were adorned with a beautiful Christmas motif, and Audrey had already gushed about them. Klein had also asked the lady again briefly about something yesterday and she had immediately filled Klein up with chatter about the porcelain cups. He was now sitting there, staring at the cups himself. He had to laugh slightly as he thought of Audrey. Leonard was gerade dabei, die beiden Tassen zu füllen. Then Leonard casually dropped down next to Klein on the padded seat, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, yet Klein felt his heart skip a beat. The poet pushed a strand of hair out of his face, his black hair glistening in the warm light of the compartment as he placed the jug on the small table. The scent of freshly brewed tea rose, sweet and soothing, with hints of cinnamon and cloves. "Don't sit so stiff," Leonard said softly, almost a whisper. "You don't have to be a conductor today," Klein took a deep breath and rested his hands on his knees. "I...I'll try it," his voice sounded calmer than he expected. He was always on the job, always alert. Now there was only one thought: here, in this warm compartment, next to Leonard. The poet handed him the cup. "Here. Chamomile, as promised yesterday." Klein carefully accepted the cup, felt the warmth through the porcelain wall to his fingers. Leonard sat back, leaned against the wall and briefly let his gaze wander through the compartment. Outside, the snow fell in dense, swirling flakes, and the soft rumble of the train underscored the silence. It was a moment that was both simple and special. "You don't really drink chamomile tea, do you?", Leonard asked, lifting his own cup. "Or do you only make exceptions for good company?" Klein couldn't help but smile. "Only exceptions for... good company," he felt a slight flush on his cheeks that surprised him. Leonard noticed, raised an eyebrow, and for a moment time stood still, as if Leonard was only looking at him. "Interesting," Leonard muttered finally, his voice softening. "I didn't think conductors could be so...level-headed," a small smile crept across his face. "Or that they suddenly become very normal when the uniform is gone," Klein returned the smile, but only briefly, because he felt that Leonard was waiting for a reaction that he couldn't quite put his finger on. "I...I'm still me. Just without the uniform. And after all, everything is magical in this train. So, maybe the conductors can be that too.", Leonard nodded as if he had expected exactly that. Then he took a small sip of tea, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was a sparkle in his eyes that hit Klein in the heart. "You know, I like to write about people. About small moments like this. About encounters that aren't planned, but still change something." "Like this one?" Klein asked softly, and the words were almost a breath between them. "Maybe," Leonard replied, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "You only find out later," for a moment there was only the quiet steam of the tea, the gentle swaying of the train, and the snowflakes dancing at the windows. Then Leonard sat a little closer, without being intrusive, just close enough for Klein to feel the gentle weight that somehow calmed him and excited him at the same time. "I'm writing something new," Leonard began, his voice soft, almost like a secret. "A poem about winter, trains, and people meeting in the small spaces in between," he handed Klein his notebook, which was open, the writing elegant and flowing. "If you'd like, you can take a look. I thought you might be the first to give your impression," Klein carefully took the notebook as if it were something fragile. He felt his heart beating faster as his fingers touched the paper. Leonard watched him silently, a soft, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. "You don't have to say it's good," whispered Leonard. "Or bad. Just say what you feel. I'd like to hear your opinion. I've often had people who then thought it was bad on the spot and didn't even read it through..." Klein nodded, and for a moment it felt as if the world outside was holding its breath. The snow, the tracks, the train, everything seemed to stand still. Only the two of them, two people in a small, warm compartment, connected by tea, paper, and unspoken words. And as Klein read the first lines, he realized that this morning, this train, this moment... was different from everything before. Different, but beautiful. Very beautiful. Leonard's gaze drifted outside while Klein's was fixed on the paper. Snowflakes danced past the window, and Leonard lightly snuggled into the blanket that Klein had given him just the other day. Even though the compartment was heated, there were moments when the cold crept into his compartment and even made him shiver. Leonard was actually very used to the cold, mostly because he usually wore very thin clothes. But now even the poet was a bit cold. However, the green gaze drifted to the other and he noticed only now that Klein's hair looked very disheveled. He smiled slightly before leaning over to the other person and briefly glancing at his hair. Klein, who was absorbed in the poem, didn't notice, but Leonard did notice that Klein was trembling slightly and briefly rubbed his hands together. As Leonard noticed this, he wrapped the blanket, which he had folded into a small, tight bundle, around the other person's body. "You're not going to freeze to death, are you?", Leonard said immediately, as Klein looked slightly perplexed and then again put on his embarrassed face for the other man. The red color suited him quite well, as Leonard restrained a laugh. "Don't laugh! That's not funny!", he replied grumbling before closing his notebook and passing it to the other. "It's very good... I don't have anything that sounds bad.", Klein mumbled and disappeared slightly into the blanket, leaning against the other. "I usually enjoy my free time alone. That's why I'm very happy with this time here now.", he replied to the other with a gentle smile. Leonard let his gaze rest on Klein for a moment, on the way he mumbled a bit into the blanket, as if he wanted to hold on to the warm feeling. Then the poet put his own notebook aside, pushed it a bit away, as if the text was less important for the moment than the here and now. "You know…," Leonard began softly, almost as if he feared to disturb the harmony, "I rarely meet someone who really listens. Not just to the words, but to the silence in between," Klein looked up at him, surprised but open. Leonard smiled a small, honest smile. "It's…pleasant. Different. Quieter," he lowered his gaze to his cup as if he were seeking courage there. "And I think…I like that," Klein felt something warm rise in his chest, a feeling that didn't come from the tea. His voice was soft, almost shy, as he replied, "Then I'm glad I can just be Klein today," for a breath the train was quieter than before. The snow danced behind the window, the teacups still steamed a bit, and someone somewhere in the back of the wagon was quietly laughing. Leonard moved a tiny bit closer, just enough for their shoulders to touch. Not by chance, not exaggerated, just a quiet, warm connection. "Good," Leonard said softly. "Then stay a bit longer. Just...," and Klein stayed.

Chapter Text

The train rattled over the icy tracks, making a loud rattling sound, and passed by a frozen lake. Deer in a herd watched the sun rise as it slowly crept over the horizon early in the morning. Life slowly returned to the train, and many of the travelers awoke. A family with children just came out of a compartment and headed for the restaurant compartment. Klein was awake before the sun had even risen. He was just about to distribute breakfast in the restaurant. The young woman, Miss Audrey Hall, came in with Susie. She was still a bit tired, but very lively nonetheless. "Good morning," she said cheerfully as she saw Klein. He also gave her a smile before serving her. Klein was so busy with his work that he didn't even notice when he was spoken to. It wasn't until Frye, another employee, tapped him and then pointed to Leonard, who was sitting at the end, that Klein nodded, indicating that he had taken it to heart. Klein went to Leonard's table. The man with the long black hair was just starting to hum a tune again. "Poet, are you writing something again?", Klein said to the others, and Leonard immediately looked up at the other. The green eyes met the soft, brown, slightly worn eyes. "Something I usually do, I don't sleep in the morning," Leonard explained to the other, and Klein took note. "Good luck Leonard, I have to get back to work," he replied to the others with a brief glance before Klein headed towards the speaker to make an announcement. The man grabbed the microphone. "Good morning, passengers. We will soon reach our first stop, Frostwell. Frostwell is known for its winter market. But also for its impressive mountain landscape as well as all kinds of offerings that were made by hand. Craftsmanship is highly valued in this place and you will find it on every corner. The winter express will stop here for 2 hours, as we want to give our passengers enough time to Our staff has put together a brochure with all the necessary information for this day. So if you want to know what you can see here, you can go to Kenley and get it from him. I wish you a pleasant day," he said, and the first passengers picked up one of the brochures. Klein himself disappeared again into the compartment. He checked all the lights again to see if there were any problems, but in the end everything was fine. Then, the little one decided to stop by the conductor for a moment. His path led him through the lounge section behind into the restaurant section, before he disappeared from there again and disappeared outside into the cold. The bitter cold hit Klein in the face as he stepped out of the warm wagon. "Good, then let's get ahead there," the young man replied, looking at the pile of coal between the head of the locomotive and the cars, where there was still room for more coal. There was no elevator or stairs, but you had to climb up to get to the conductor. But Klein was already used to doing this in his sleep. Done, and not a few minutes later Klein was in the head of the locomotive with the train driver. "She's running like a pro today, guys," he said to the two of them and applauded. They just quickly thanked him, saying they were just doing their job, before the other guy was already shoveling coal. Frostwell in about half an hour. Tracks are clear, but it's snowing harder," the conductor replied before Klein nodded and took it to heart. Then he set off on his way back. He climbed the mountain again and only briefly dared to look. The train drove through a thick layer of fog before it cleared. Kleins brown eyes grew wide and he smiled slightly. For the view he was being offered, you couldn't even see it from the wagons. The sky was a bright blue, while soft clouds drifted across it, and white flakes blew again, because the weather thought it hadn't snowed enough yet. However, something else was so wonderful about this view. Frostwell was buried in a deep snow cover, the houses protruded, and on the snow-covered hills, children were seen playing and laughing in the snow. The colorful and bright lights made the village magical. Klein went back to the Wagon after inquiring there as well. He re-entered the warm wagon and by chance ran into him again. "Leonard? What are you doing here?" Klein asked the other man, looking at him somewhat surprised. "I just looked around, I must have walked a long way." He put on his charming smile once again, which is why Klein didn't say anything, but just thought to himself that he was here because of him. "You really believe I would believe that? Please, believe me," Klein replied, looking the other man in the eye. The green one sparkled mischievously. "I wanted to ask something else, do you want to go into town with me? After all, it's not as great here as it is in the city." He offered the other man this. Klein had to laugh for a moment, not loudly, just so that it took the tension out of his shoulders. Leonard looked at him with this half-mischievous, half-innocent glance that worked in a way as if he had not only used the words but also expected a small nod of approval from Klein. "I hardly think you would believe me," Klein said and shook his head. "You are too... inventive," Leonard shrugged as if he had actually been caught, and then, quite suddenly, he suggested, "So come with me. Just a little way. I don't want to stay long, just see the market, a few stalls. And maybe a gingerbread," Klein looked at him. Duty, plan, responsibility, all of this gnawed at him in small, neat thought fragments. But when he looked into Leonard's face, at the way the snowflakes in the window light made his eyelashes glow brightly and at the way his voice trembled slightly with a bit of excitement, something melted. Not immediately, not excessively. Just enough to make a nod possible. "Okay. Half an hour. Then I'll be back on duty." Leonard beamed, as if someone had given him a gift. "Perfect. I'll wait by the door." He stood up, pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and glanced at the hat Klein was wearing. "You should put it on. It's...colder outside.", Klein reached for his cap, hesitated for a moment whether he should really wear the uniform cap, but then he threw it over his head. Outside, the cold hit like a hand reaching into your face, sharp, clear, invigorating. Winter smelled of ice, wood smoke, and the things people did to stay warm in the cold. The platform at Frostwell looked like a postcard. Small wooden cabins, surrounded by string lights, steaming stalls where vendors sold homemade winter sweets, knitted hats, and small wooden ornaments. Children ran around with red cheeks and oversized scarves, and from the center of the market rose the smell of roasted almonds and hot apple cider. Everywhere, warm light glowed, and the snowflakes fell as if they had decided to stay a little longer to see the celebration. Leonard led Klein with a slight swing of his arm, not pressing, but rather as if he wanted to share something. "Look, see the stand over there?" he whispered, even though it was loud outside with voices and laughter. "They have the best spice rings there. And over there is a woman who sells bookmarks with little poems." He pointed to a stand where an older man was carving wooden ornaments, and then to a stand full of teddy bears. Leonard had also picked up a brochure when Klein had suggested it. In the end, it made sense to look around and get some information here. Klein let his hands rest in the pockets of his briefcase. His heart still pounded from the quick departure, but the murmur of the people around him, the warmth of the market stalls, and the presence of Leonard by his side made him unusually light. He watched Leonard as he spoke, with this soft pondering in his sentences, as if he not only saw the world but was already breaking it into verse. They strolled along without haste. Leonard bought them two packets of candied ginger, handed one to Klein without much ceremony, and then he stopped at a stand where a woman was folding small paper stars. "A star for memory," she explained with a smile. Leonard turned the star between his fingers as if it were a treasure. "I think I'll take two. One for the road, and one for later," Klein smiled. He noticed how the other's hands trembled slightly as he spoke, not from cold, but from a fine inner unease. At a stand with hot chestnuts, Leonard automatically handed him the warm, wrapped nuts. "Try one," he said. "They're good for chills." It was there, on the edge of the square, where music like cotton threads drifted through the air, that a small moment occurred that almost took Klein's breath away. A group of children let a small lantern rise, not high enough to escape, but high enough that its yellow light hung like a small heart over the alley. Leonard stopped, looked up, then lowered his head to Klein. The closeness between them was no longer just friendly; it was a pressing point in a line that was still unclear. "Small...", Leonard began quietly. His voice was suddenly very close. "Sometimes I think that people who drive trains or work on them keep things that others lose. They organize, repair, take care of. They hold something together." Klein did not meet this sentence with the usual professional smile. It was unprotected, honest. "Maybe," he looked at Leonard. "Maybe it's exactly that. Sometimes it feels like I'm just...making sure the world keeps going." Leonard nodded. "And sometimes," he chose the words like someone picking a rare flower, "you find something you weren't looking for. Something that fits you." His hand unnoticed found Klein's, which didn't demand, only sought. "May I?" Klein felt a warm prickle through his fingertips. For a fraction of a second, he thought about pulling his hand away. Instead, he wrapped his fingers a bit tighter around Leonard's. It was a quiet yes, not a triumphant confession, more a mutual understanding. The touch was brief, but it was enough to tell him that the here and now went deeper than he wanted to admit. They stood there, in the middle of the bustling activity, and looked at each other. No one was used to being as still as they were in the markets, the world kept spinning, and yet in this tiny circle time seemed to move slower. Leonard smiled, this smile that Klein already knew: a little mischievous, very soft, and full of something that one could almost call hope. "Come with me to the ice lantern at the bridge's edge," Leonard finally whispered. "It's nicer there. Fewer people, more stars." Klein nodded, without thinking long. Together they walked on, their hands still intertwined, and every step felt like a quiet appointment. The lanterns on the river cast light on the ice; the water below sparkled as if it held all the lights of the market within it. Leonard pulled his scarf a little away from Klein's neck, not roughly, not distantly, just a gesture that created warmth. Klein felt the fabric, the closeness, the other's heartbeat against his own, and for a moment, which was both brief and endless, he knew that this day would remain in his memory. They stood side by side, looking down at the ice. Leonard whispered something incomprehensible, then read a line, not a poem, just a sentence he had just found: "Sometimes warmth is nothing more than the decision to stand next to someone." Klein didn't respond with words. He laid his head slightly against Leonard's shoulder. It was not a loud expression, no demand. Just closeness. Just trust. And the market continued to rumble, warm and bright, as two men on the edge of a small winter town decided for a moment not to be alone.

＠＾▽＾＠

The path to the river was lined with small white string lights that hung from the bare branches like frozen shooting stars. The closer Klein and Leonard got to the water, the quieter the Christmas market's din became. Only the muffled crunch of snow under their feet and the distant sound of a harp accompanied them. The river was half frozen. It snaked through the city like a silver mirror, and people had gathered on the shore with small candle lanterns. The lanterns were made of paper-thin glass and painted with frosty patterns. Some had snowflakes on them, others had silver stars or tiny deer that looked like they were about to run off. Leonard stood close to Klein, his hands deep in his coat pockets, as his breath painted small clouds in the cold air. "That's really beautiful," he muttered, almost reverently. Klein nodded. The soft light of the lanterns reflected in his eyes, and a strange, bittersweet peace spread in his chest. He felt Leonard by his side, not touching, but close enough that the shared silence became warm. The children on the shore were just putting the first lanterns into the water. A father lifted his son up so the little one wouldn't accidentally throw the candle into the snow. An older couple held hands. And somewhere, someone was playing a soft winter song on a violin. Klein inhaled deeply. Then, without consciously noticing, he and Leonard moved closer to each other, as if drawn by the same invisible force. As a gust of wind passed by, Leonard pressed his shoulder lightly against Klein's, not firmly, but protectively, almost tenderly. Klein felt his heart beating softer and faster. "Did you know," Leonard began in a soft voice, "that people used to believe lanterns could carry lost wishes? Wishes that one could no longer speak aloud." "And... do you believe in them yourself?" Klein didn't know why his voice was so soft. Leonard stared at the lights in the water for a long time. "I believe that some things find their way. Even if you don't say them.", Klein was about to respond when a calm, familiar voice, warm like herbal tea and rough like an old fireplace, sounded behind them: "Nice tradition, isn't it? Lanterns can sometimes carry more than people realize," they both said together and turned around. Old Neil stood only a few steps behind them. He was holding a lantern, too, an old, scratched brass one with a candle that burned steadily and unwaveringly. His coat was covered with a thin layer of snow, and his scarf was halfway off to the side. He looked as if he had stepped out of the winter air itself. Klein opened his eyes. "O-Old Neil?! What... how...?" Old Neil smiled, with that typical, knowing, gentle smile, as he knew Klein from one of his first winter express rides. "Sometimes you follow a feeling. Sometimes a scent. Sometimes... the whisper of a winter evening." He raised his lantern slightly. "And sometimes you find yourself suddenly in the exact place where you are needed." Leonard blinked, surprised. "You... still travel? Klein told me about you." "I always travel, young man." Old Neil winked. "Especially when herbs run out or hearts need some guidance," Klein felt his cheeks warm, from the cold, but also from something else. Old Neil briefly but kindly surveyed the two, as if he could see more than they were saying. "Ah," a soft, assenting sound that meant more than a dozen words. "You've found a good spot tonight. I'm glad to hear that," Leonard cleared his throat, suddenly subtly blushing. "We... um... yes." Old Neil stepped closer, standing between the two and looking with them at the lanterns that slowly drifted down the river. Light snowflakes fell from the sky and glittered like little stars. "You know," he began softly, "lanterns carry not only wishes. They also carry memories. And sometimes…they bring people together who are better off in the light than in the dark," Klein felt a lump in his throat. Beside him, Leonard unconsciously placed his hand on the edge of his coat, not as a touch, but rather as a sign of closeness. "And the two of you... got a lantern today that didn't have to go into the water," Old Neil winked at them. "You found your own." Little swallowed. Leonard remained still, but his gaze briefly wandered to Klein, warm, open, and telling. The river glitters, the lanterns drift like small celestial bodies over the surface. And between them, in the soft light of the winter evening, stood the three: the conductor, the poet, and the old mentor, who fate seemed to have led to this place. Old Neil smiled deeply. "Come on. The evening is still young. And I think I owe you both a cup of my herbal tea." Old Neil turned away from the lanterns as if everything that could be said between two breaths had been said. Then he looked over the rim of his glasses at Klein and Leonard. "Now? If you're already here and obviously dressed too thinly, then come along. You look like you'll keel over after a simple walk in the snow." Klein blinked. "I... I don't feel cold particularly." Leonard snorted quietly. "Oh yes, you do. And you're shivering like a little snow hare." "A snow hare?!", Old Neil laughed loudly. "Well, Klein, you're more of a...hm...squirrel. Nervous, attentive, quick, and with the feeling that a nut to sort would be found at any moment. "That's disrespectful." "That's true." "I don't sort-", "Come on." Old Neil interrupted him and already stomped ahead up the small path that led back towards the market stalls. The snow crunched beneath his feet, and his coat fluttered behind him like a sails. Klein and Leonard followed him, first side by side, then getting closer and closer as the path narrowed and squeezed between two snow-covered bushes. When Leonard accidentally bumped into Klein with his shoulder, Klein jerked back like an overworked mouse cat. "Sorry," Leonard muttered, but his voice sounded too warm to be truly apologetic. And somehow... their closeness persisted. Just a hint, but noticeable. "Small? Leonard?" Old Neil suddenly called out without turning around. "Yes?" "Yes?" - both at the same time. Old Neil smiled. "You don't have to fall back that far. I won't suddenly throw snow powder into the air and disappear," a brief pause. "Not yet." Klein and Leonard exchanged confused, amused glances. The Christmas market lit up again in front of them - colorful stalls, the smell of cinnamon cream, roasted nuts, hot wine, and freshly roasted chestnuts. The sounds of the people sounded lively, but not intrusive. And everywhere, string lights sparkled in the branches. Old Neil led them purposefully to a more secluded stand. An old woman sold herbs, tea blends, and oddly shaped glasses filled with shimmering powders there. Her eyes flashed as Old Neil approached. "Ah! There's the one who keeps emptying my stock," she said with a spark of both annoyance and affection. Old Neil bowed slightly. "I'm just doing what the spirit of the herbs demands." "Then please demand less today! Last week you plundered my entire stock of moon mint.", Old Neil waved it off. "Necessary." Klein and Leonard stood slightly unsure behind him as the two old acquaintances lost themselves in a semi-serious verbal sparring match. Finally, Old Neil turned to them again. "You two. Try this," he pulled out a small vial, unscrewed the cork, and handed it to Klein. A fine herbal scent rose up warm, soothing, a bit like honey and winter air. "What... exactly is this?" Klein asked cautiously. Old Neil winked. "Courage." Leonard raised an eyebrow. "Courage?" "Exactly. Sometimes you need some of that," he looked at Leonard. "And sometimes others need some honesty," then back to Klein. "And someone needs the ability not to overanalyze their mind," Klein blushed. "I don't overanalyze."
"Of course not," Old Neil smiled affectionately. "You're just... very thorough," Leonard laughed. "Very thorough is right," Klein cleared his throat and suddenly felt like a student again. Old Neil removed his gloves and began to assemble two small herb pouches. "You're not just coincidentally traveling together today," he said casually as his fingers deftly glided over the herbs. "Trains rarely connect people who are supposed to have nothing to do with each other," Leonard opened his mouth, but Old Neil just raised a finger. "Don't say anything. Sometimes silence is the wisest conversation."
Then he handed each of them a bag. "For later. And don't worry, it's nothing magical in the uncontrolled sense." He winked at her, "Just...helpful." Leonard took it carefully. Klein looked at it as if it were a treasure. "Thanks...Old Neil," the old man nodded contentedly. "Then come. I'll invite you both for tea. And tell me what the Winter Express has in store for guests this year. I love stories," they walked on together, through the glittering lights, past musicians and stalls, close together, their shoulders almost touching. Klein felt amazingly light - as if the evening itself had a warm hand on his heart. Leonard looked over at Klein, and Klein quickly looked away. But he smiled.
And Leonard too. Old Neil noticed it.
Of course he noticed. And his grin revealed everything. "Ah," he muttered to himself. "Something very beautiful is on its way," the man replied. A short time later, they made their way to the train. Leonard got on first. Old Neil handed Klein a suitcase and he didn't seem really surprised. "Welcome aboard the Winter Express. Please show your ticket," Klein asked the other, who pulled out his ticket and gave it to him. With that, Klein started to rewrite the ticket with letters before giving it to Old Neil. He looked at it briefly and recognized an S at the beginning, while the end was a T. He thought for a moment before he put his ticket away and got on, getting a compartment in the train as well. Klein himself took his lantern and walked along the platform again before he shouted loudly. "Everyone get on! Everyone get on!" He repeated the last of his sentences at the end more and more often, and when everyone had gotten on, he swung the lantern before the car had already started moving and left the station. Klein himself got on quickly and put the lantern away before he went back into the interior of the car. The Winter Express continued on its journey.

Chapter Text

As many of the passengers waved from the open windows, the express left Frostwell station. The steam pipe of the old locomotive spewed dense gray clouds of burned material into the air, which were carried away by the wind. The tracks were clear, but they were very slippery, and you could feel the unevenness when the locomotive drove over one of them. Slowly but surely, the vehicle gained more momentum and speed, so it soon continued towards the goal at a comfortable pace. While outside the cold snowflakes fell to the ground, the little one went through the sleeping car again where the passengers were overpowering. He checked the windows, doors, lights, and briefly cleaned up here and there. He was asked for help on the hallway shortly after, and the next time a family asked him to bring something or thanked him. A traveler was also just handing out things, which turned out to be small gift bags with all sorts of stuff. Klein suspected that the other person had likely bought out several stalls at the Christmas market specifically for the group. It was warm, laughter filled the room, while in his head the song White Christmas by Bing Crosby kept repeating and he softly sang along. Klein himself had also arrived at the lounge by now, as he had some cleaning to do there as well. He saw Leonard from the perspective of the viewer. The poet sits on the windowsill. Looking out the window, with his notebook in his lap, where he always writes his poems. However, there was something different about these images. Leonard wasn't sitting there like someone who had just decided to have a lazy day. However, his gaze didn't look like the eccentric Leonard, it looked restless, uncertain, and he kept looking out the window. The window was decorated with large and small ice crystals, as it had gotten a bit cold by now. Klein himself, however, turned to the needs of his guests. So he brought some things to a group of children, set up a fresh cup of cocoa, brought two plates of cookies, and also checked all the spots to make sure everything was in place. The train continued on its way. However, the tracks became more icy with each section the train traveled, and it began to jolt more. Klein felt this at the first location and when he looked out, he saw why. The wind whistles all around the entire train. Snow flew against the windows, and it felt as if the snowflake would instantly freeze it. Suddenly, the train became quiet, and a few of the children looked out the window. Meanwhile, a hellish storm was raging outside the train, and the train itself was slowing down considerably. The winter express swayed a bit, barely noticeable, but enough to cause a mother in the back of the lounge to reflexively place her hand on the back of her child. A dull, drawn-out creaking vibrated through the carriages as some ice gave way under the wheels. Conversations fell silent, one by one, until only the constant rumble of the train and the howling of the storm could be heard. Like an animal that roamed outside in the white wilderness and scratched against the metal skin of the train. Klein looked up from the tray he was balancing with empty cups.
A tingling spread through his chest, the kind of unease an experienced conductor feels long before anything actually happens. His eyes roamed the lounge. The windows quivered slightly with gusts of wind, each breath from outside causing thin trails of frost to run across the glass. Like fine spider webs of ice. Leonard had felt the shudder, too. But instead of being frightened or becoming uneasy, he froze in a silent, profound way that Klein had rarely seen in the poet who otherwise seemed so self-confident. His fingers hovered over the notebook with the pen, as if the storm had stopped his entire thought process. Another jolt. This time stronger. Klein took a sharp breath. "Not good...", a child, about five years old, dropped his cookie. A woman whispered, "Please don't... not now...", Klein forced himself to calm down and put the tray down. He smiled at the mother, who nervously bit her lip. "Everything's fine. We're just going a bit slower. That's normal in heavy snowfall.", but the words didn't quite taste right to him. The wind outside was howling like something alive chasing the train. He took a step forward and stopped. Leonard sat motionless, his green eyes fixed on a point outside. Not on the snow. Not on the landscape. On... something else. "Leonard?" Klein stepped closer. The poet blinked, as if he had to return from a deep trance, and slowly turned his head toward him. "Do you hear that?" Klein listened. He only heard wind, snow, and the irregular breaths of the passengers. "What exactly?" Leonard frowned. "It sounds like something is pushing against the train. Not just wind." A shiver ran through his voice. "More like... weight," Klein wanted to object, but at the same moment another blow hit the outside wall, dull, heavy, cold. Some passengers screamed in fright. Klein saw the fear in their faces. Instinctively he straightened up, shoulders straight, voice firm. "Everything remains calm! Our driver will certainly tell us something soon. Please sit down first. We are prepared," but before he could take even three steps, someone shouted: "Conductor! Conductor Moretti! The windows in the sleeping car... they're fogging up from the inside, but it's drafty!" another: "The lamp is flickering!" "Why is it getting colder?" "Is snow coming through the door seams?!", the wave of fear began to spread. And then, completely unexpectedly, a book was closed firmly. Leonard set it aside and stood up. He did it so quietly, so lightly, that it seemed as if he was taking the air with him. He stood next to Klein, their shoulders only a hand's width apart. "Listen to me," Leonard said, his voice surprisingly soft but unwavering.
"We are here together. The train has seen a lot, and I promise you: we will get through this storm." The words seemed to calm the turbulent mood, like a warm cloth placed over a too-hot pot. Klein gave him a quick glance. A brief moment, but full of unspoken thoughts. ~Thank you.~
Leonard nodded barely perceptibly, as if he had understood the silent words. Klein turned to the door, ready to take his way forward to the train. But suddenly the conductor's voice came over the loudspeaker, slightly distorted by the storm: "Dear passengers, our express has unfortunately gotten lost in a snowstorm. Please remain completely calm. Klein, we need you up front. The snow protection is almost blocked. We are losing thrust. Come immediately! And put on the thick jacket," the murmur of the passengers grew louder. Leonard turned to him, concern clearly in his eyes. "You have to get out there?" "Yes. There's no other way. My colleagues need every hand of the train staff for this," Leonard's mouth opened as if he wanted to say something - perhaps "don't do that," perhaps "watch out for yourself" - but he swallowed the words. Klein nodded at him. "I'll be back," Leonard stood there, only half a step too far away, and yet Klein felt his proximity like a second skin. He put on his thick winter jacket and trudged to the carriage door. The storm pushed against it from the outside. As if the wind had decided to hold the entire train back. He opened the door and the wind almost ripped it out of his hand. Ice crystals sprayed into his face. His cheeks burned immediately. Behind him he suddenly heard quick steps. "Klein!" he turned around. Leonard stood there, with a blanket in his hand, not to warm himself but to wrap it around Klein. "You'll freeze right through otherwise," the gesture struck Klein unexpectedly deep. "Thanks," it took only a heartbeat. One single heartbeat. Yet this heartbeat felt as if it hung in the air, warm, despite the deadly wind. Then Klein finally pushed the door open and stepped out into the snowstorm.

(*´ω｀*)

Outside, chaos reigned. The snow whipped horizontally, as if the air itself had decided to swallow the train.
Klein squinted, feeling her way along the slippery running boards, clinging to every handle. The locomotive was visible only as a dark outline, the sparks from the fire inside dancing through the smoke and ice. Two workers waved frantically. "Here! The snow shield is almost closed, we're barely getting air into the combustion chamber!" Together they pushed against the ice masses. Shoveling, chopping, ripping off frozen chunks that were thicker than Klein's forearm. The wind tore breath from their lungs. Once, Klein slipped, barely holding on to the handle. A cry was torn apart by the wind, but he thought he heard Leonard's voice. Imagination, he told himself. He's on the train, warm and safe. But a part of him, quiet and stubborn, whispered: He's looking at you. After endless minutes, they managed to clear the most important spots. The locomotive breathed again. One could hear it. A deep, relieved metallic sound. "Well done!" one of the workers shouted. "Get back before you freeze solid!" Klein nodded and started his way back. He was half frozen, his legs felt like they were carved from wood. But when he reached the carriage door, it opened from the inside and Leonard stood there. No coat, no scarf, just a Shirt. Snowflakes stuck in his black hair. "Are you crazy?" Klein blurted out. "I just wanted to make sure you'd come back," a lump formed in Klein's throat. For a moment, he forgot the cold, the storm, all the noise. Leonard's hand touched his arm, first gently, then firmly. "Come in," he whispered, and Klein did. Inside the wagon, there was a tense, dimly lit atmosphere. Many passengers had gathered in the lounge area, wrapped in blankets and coats. Children were crying. Adults were whispering and looking out the window. "How bad is it?" Audrey asked with a shaking voice. Klein wanted to answer, but another jolt made the whole lounge shake like an earthquake. Glasses clinked on the shelves. A few people shouted, and right then, something happened that no one expected: Leonard clapped his hands. Loudly. Clearly. Determinedly. All heads turned to him. "Listen to me!", he began. "We're stuck here together, but we don't have to freeze and we don't have to be afraid." His gaze sought out Klein, only briefly, a tiny second, but it was enough to give her strength. "So: we're going to the lounge. Everyone, the biggest one with the big fireplace. We'll make a fire. We'll warm up. And we won't be alone." A murmur went through the crowd. "But... can we do that?" someone asked. Klein straightened his shoulders, nodded to Leonard, and said loudly, "Yes. We can. According to the rules, everyone is allowed to use this room." A sigh of relief, hesitant at first, then more pronounced. Klein and Leonard led the group to the large lounge, a section that was usually only used in the evenings. The tall arched windows were covered in ice flowers, the room was cold, but large, inviting, and equipped with a massive fireplace made of old brass. Klein knelt in front of it, lit the fire. He was still shaking, whether from the storm or the last few minutes with Leonard, he wasn't sure. As the first flames flared, a warm light filled the room. Passengers sat on couches, on the floor, on blankets. The storm raged on outside, but in here…in here something else began. Calm, warmth, community. Audrey began to play a quiet, calm melody on the old piano, while Susie played with a few children. Old Neil told the children stories about winter spirits and sparkling snow fairies. Couples held hands. A father wrapped his baby in a thick blanket. Klein sat exhausted on a pillow by the fireplace. Leonard slowly came to him. His movements were quiet, almost poetic. He sat down beside him, so close that their shoulders almost touched. No more, no exaggerated gesture. No word that would be too much. Just closeness and warmth. "You calmed her down," Klein said softly. "No," Leonard corrected just as softly, "we did.", the flames reflected in his green eyes. Klein noticed that his heart, despite the many fears of the last few minutes, was beating more calmly than before. "What would I be without you...", he whispered, barely audible. Leonard smiled softly. "Probably less frozen.", Klein laughed softly. It felt good. "But seriously," Leonard continued, "I... didn't want you to be alone out there," his voice was soft, almost fragile, but honest. Klein looked into the flames, then he looked at Leonard. "I'm glad you're here." Leonard exhaled, a soft, warm breath. His hand was on the pillow, close to Klein's. Their fingers almost touched, only a breath away. Brown and green eyes met briefly, and Klein's eyes wandered over the other's black hair, then slowly, he raised his hand. He ran it briefly through Leonard's hair. He felt they were soft, and he easily freed them from the snow, which had melted by now. "My poet, you shine like the starry sky," Klein whispered to the other before letting his hand drop. Leonard himself noticed that Klein still had dirty cheeks when he was at the train dispatcher's office a few hours ago. He wiped the soot away and looked at him with a slightly amused expression. "Your cheeks look foolish. Show me your pretty side, you fool," it came across as mischievous and very flirtatious, causing Klein to quickly turn his head away. This made things quieter between the two, but the warmth remained. Outside, the snowstorm raged on. But inside, in the warm golden light of the fire, the world felt safe for a moment. And deep in this moment, this quiet, shared winter moment, Klein knew: This storm wouldn't be the end. It would only be the beginning of something new. It would get quieter. Audrey's music faded before there was a slight jolt and the train continued on its way. "Dear passengers, our journey will now continue, the snow is slowly clearing and the track is now clear. We hope you're all doing well and still having fun here," the conductor's voice boomed through the speaker. Small and Leonard smiled at each other as the warmth spread through the group. Audrey sang dann ein fröhliches Weihnachtslied, zu dem die Kinder mitsangen. The scent of cocoa filled the air, and the delicious cookies also had a good aroma, while the fire crackled in the fireplace, everything was so soft and quickly warm. They don't want to miss this warmth just yet.

Chapter Text

The morning after the storm was quieter than Klein had expected. The Winter Express was still traveling at a reduced speed through the white sea, but the worst gusts had subsided; only an icy whisper surrounded the cars. The large lounge still smelled of wood smoke and tea, the blankets were rumpled on the sofas, and some passengers moved slowly, after a night that had brought them closer together than they were used to. Klein made his rounds, as always with alert eyes and a proven eye for small details. He fetched fresh jugs from the galley, refilled the sugar containers, adjusted a pillow, and listened to the people when they told something. On the way to the corridor leading to the cabins, he glanced at the window seat - Leonard was sitting there, his head slightly tilted forward, his fingers intertwined, the notebook tightly on his knees. The brown cup beside him was half full; small steam clouds rose from it. Leonard seemed concentrated, but not restless. Rather thoughtful. He might have been working on a line. As Klein walked past him, he noticed something on the carpet, barely larger than a thumbnail: a small, flattened something, dulled by salt and snow residue. He automatically bent down - curiosity was part of his job - as was courtesy, and picked it up. It was a small brass can, barely larger than a coin, with a fine engraving pattern on the edge and an engraved initial on the underside of the lid: L.M. Klein turned the can in his hand. Gravity, weather, and use had given it a patina; inside was a piece of paper, carefully folded, a tiny, yellowed note, written in a quill pen script that was immediately familiar. Not because of the handwriting, but because the scent rose, a faint hint of dried lavender and soot, a smell that Klein instinctively associated with Leonard's notebooks and his underclass of old ink. His heart beat a little faster. Leonard, he thought, and in his mind's eye, the image of the man at the window formed, his head tilted, his hair still slightly damp from the night. Klein slipped the can into the inside pocket of his uniform - he didn't want Leonard to feel uneasy if anyone had seen it and interpreted it as intimacy - and continued on his way. The can remained on his stomach all morning, like a small, warm stone. He was unsure: Should he talk to Leonard right away? Or report the discovery discreetly? A personal item was something delicate. On the other hand, Leonard was not just a passenger. He was someone who wore words like layers, very carefully. Maybe he didn't want someone to look at his things without being asked. When the train announced lunchtime, Klein found him alone in a small niche compartment at the end of the car: Leonard was sitting on the bench, the notebook closed, his hands on the lid, his gaze locked on his own. Klein opened the door just a crack, the can warm in his fist. "Leonard?" he asked as casually as he could. Leonard looked up, surprised, and smiled faintly. "Klein. Come on in." His voice sounded friendly, making Klein feel immediately welcome. He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. "You lost something," Klein began, pulling out the brass can. Leonard's eyes widened, first because of the memory, then because of the small gesture of relief. "That's yours?" Leonard took the can as if it were a very fragile flower. His fingertips trembled slightly. "Yes...," he said softly. "That is...". He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was trying to organize the memory. "That is important to me. Very important," Klein stopped and looked at him. He was searching for the right amount of courtesy and sympathy. "It looked like you had lost it. I'm glad I found it," Leonard exhaled. Then a small, honest smile spread across his face, as if a heavy stone had been lifted. "Thank you. Thank you, Klein. It...it's dumber than it sounds, but I...I wouldn't want it to disappear." "May I know what it is?" Klein could no longer maintain neutrality; it was more curiosity than duty. Leonard held the can a second longer, studying the fine pattern on the brass lid. Finally, he opened it with his finger and gently placed the lid on the edge of the table. As noted earlier, inside was the small, rolled-up note, and next to it, stacked on top of each other, a tiny piece of fabric, perhaps from an old handkerchief, with a loose fragment of a broken pencil lead rolled up inside, a tiny metal strip with the faded ink marking "M." Leonard smiled, half-sad. "That's... my good luck charm. Or: was. It was never particularly big. It's a piece of something someone gave me when...", he hesitated, searching for a line in his memory. "When I traveled alone for the first time. It was... it was a sign that it was okay to go. I always carried it with me. And now it's almost broken." Klein took the paper in his hand, carefully, as if he were holding an old parchment page. On the paper was a sentence, in a flowing hand, which Leonard repeated softly as he read it aloud:
"May the road rise up to meet you, when you think you're lost," it wasn't just a saying. It was a duty, a reminder. Leonard ran his thumb over the ink as if he could press the sentence back to himself. "Who gave it to you?" Klein asked then, very quietly, not inquisitively in a perverse way, but with genuine openness. Leonard closed his eyes. His breath was slow, as if to organize the answer. "My sister," he finally said. The two words came as if he opened a drawer, and something that had long been dormant slid out. "She is...she is not here anymore. Many years ago. Not someone you just call. Not someone you take on a journey with," his voice lost color, and for a moment Klein saw the sadness he had rarely seen so openly in Leonard. "She gave me this piece before I left for school. She said, 'If you fall, then pick yourself up on this thing.' I laughed and thought she was crazy, but somehow... it always helped me," Klein suddenly sat on the opposite bench without realizing he had done so. He felt the world around him grow quieter, the rumbling sounds of the train shrinking to a proper distance. "I'm sorry," he said. It was more than just words. It was honest compassion, calm and simple. "I didn't know... I didn't know that..." "It's okay." Leonard raised a finger, gently. He folded the note and put it back in the can, as if he wanted to protect the memory. "I didn't want anyone to see it. Not for anyone else to know. But…" He looked at Klein with an openness that was less like a poet and more like a person who had decided to trust. "But today it's okay. Today it's a day when it's back in its place." Klein noticed his hands were slightly trembling. He placed his fingertips on the can, felt brass, felt warmth. "You must have gone through a lot, huh?" he said, perhaps too gently. "Something," Leonard replied, smiling—not a big laugh, more a sad, soft glow. "You know… people think poetry is a refuge. For me, it is. But sometimes it's not just art that saves you." They are people. People who say, "Keep going. You're okay." His eyes met Klein's. "You say that often. You say that to me, even when you think it's just your duty." Klein swallowed. "I say it because I think it." His voice was surprisingly firm. "And because, because you're not alone." Leonard nodded. With a movement less frantic than the one he made when writing, he placed the can on the table between them. "Do you...do you sometimes read my lines?" he asked, almost shyly. "Not as a critic. Just as...a friend." The request hit Klein unexpectedly hard. It was clear that Leonard meant more than just literary closeness. "Yes," Klein said, and the simple word felt like a bridge being built. "If you want to." Leonard smiled. He pulled out the notebook, opened a page, and read, quietly, the lines he had written in the stormy nights. They were not grand verses, nothing theatrical. They were observations: of people, of tiny gestures, of lamplight and hot teacups. And in the middle, like a heartbeat, Klein found a line that seemed to speak to him: "Someone holds the shore while the train storms. Someone stays when the tracks swallow. Someone who warms hands instead of watching them." Klein felt his cheeks grow hot. The words were not direct; they were Leonard, but they touched something that had lain in Klein for a long time, still and awake. They read together, and Leonard opened more pages, showed him lines, explained scraps of metaphors that only he alone could interpret. Klein listened, laughed at the right moments and then slowly moved his hand over the top of the can, feeling the cold, yet the touch carried warmth. When they were done, Leonard briefly pressed his forehead to Klein's shoulder, a small gesture of belonging, quieter than words. "Thanks," he muttered. Not for the can. Not just that. But for something bigger: for the return, for listening, for staying. Klein didn't respond with a promise. He merely placed his hand on Leonard's, their fingers met, a little, but enough, and in the small, quiet space between them there was enough warmth for the journey to Frostwell and far beyond.

(ノ°∀°)ノ⌒･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆

After the conversation between them had grown quieter and the shadows in the compartment had changed, Leonard turned his notebook back to a clean page. Klein was already standing, ready to continue his round, even though he didn't really want to leave this silence. "Wait," Leonard said suddenly, picked up the can and held it against the weak window light. "Before it falls out of my pocket again... will you help me?" Klein blinked in surprise. "What?" "At... the right place. I think I've always tried to carry it where I was afraid of losing it," he smiled. "Ironic, isn't it?" Klein sat down again. Leonard handed him the can, and for the first time their fingers touched not by accident but by intention, slowly, carefully, respectfully. "What do you think of this?" Klein asked, tapping the inner breast pocket of Leonard's coat. "It has a seam that doesn't easily open. And it's close to the heart." Leonard paused, then smiled askew. "Close to the heart is probably exactly the right place." Klein opened the pocket, slowly pushed the can in, and checked the seam with a probing touch, as he did with passenger lists. Leonard watched him, not curious, more calm, as if he were celebrating a small, significant act. "Fits perfectly," Klein said softly. "Maybe because you're the one doing it," Leonard replied. It was a sentence that lingered in its sound long after Klein stood up again. Later that early evening, as the train rolled into a quiet passage and the white firs passed by the window, Klein Leonard met again, this time by chance, alone at the aisle window, wrapped in a scarf he had probably found on the train. "There you are," Leonard said without turning around. "I thought the storm had blown you away," Klein leaned against the wall next to him, his hands in his pockets, and looked out. "I'm just cleaning up the dining car. You left a few pages lying around. I set them aside." "They're just drafts, they're no good," Leonard snorted slightly. "No one needs to see them." "I didn't look at them," Klein said quickly. Leonard turned his head to him, surprised by the seriousness. "I know. You're...someone who understands boundaries," the silence that followed was light, not heavy. Then, without announcing it, Leonard pulled out the notebook, turned to a fresh page and began to write, not hastily, but as if the words had already existed and were just waiting for their place. After a while, he stopped. "I thought... maybe I should write a few lines that have to do with you," Klein felt his chest tighten strangely. "Why?" "Because you are someone who holds on to more than things you lose," Leonard smiled. "You hold on to people, Klein. Without suffocating them. That's rare," Klein looked out at the landscape again so Leonard wouldn't see his face too clearly, he knew he was blushing. "I... I'm just doing my job." "Yes," Leonard said softly. "But not just that," they stood there for a while longer and in the silence, nothing was uncomfortable. It was warmth that didn't need to be spoken. Most passengers were already asleep, the sleeping car bathed in warm, golden light. Klein made his final inspection, lantern in hand, his footsteps quiet as snowfall. As he passed Leonard's compartment, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. A glowing strip fell across the aisle. Klein knocked softly. "Leonard? Everything okay?" The door opened a bit wider. Leonard looked up, his hair mussed, the notebook on his lap, the brass can beside him on the pillow. "I couldn't sleep," he said apologetically. "Sometimes... the memories get louder when the world gets quieter." Klein stepped in, just one step, but close enough to share the room. "Shall I bring you some tea?" Leonard shook his head. "No. Actually... I wanted to ask you something." "Of course." Leonard held up the small brass can, like a silent proof:
"Would you have kept it...if you hadn't known it belonged to me?" the question was deep and vulnerable. Klein answered without hesitation: "I would have picked it up. Until someone looked for it. I don't throw away anything that means something to someone." Leonard exhaled, and it wasn't just a breath, but a letting go. "That's what I thought. That's why...it's good that you were the one who found it." Then Leonard asked quietly, "Are you staying for a short time?" Just until it calms down?", Klein nodded. He sat down on the small folding chair opposite, the lantern dimmed, and in the narrow, warm compartment, only the rhythmic rumble of the wheels and Leonard's quiet breathing echoed. When Leonard finally closed his eyes, the can was safely in his breast pocket, and Klein knew that, for a reason he couldn't quite put into words, he was glad he had continued his rounds that night a little later. Then Leonard asked quietly, "Are you staying for a short time?" Just until it calms down?", Klein nodded. He sat down on the small folding chair opposite, the lantern dimmed, and in the narrow, warm compartment, only the rhythmic rumble of the wheels and Leonard's quiet breathing echoed. When Leonard finally closed his eyes, the can was safely in his breast pocket, and Klein knew that, for a reason he couldn't quite put into words, he was glad he had continued his rounds that night a little later.

Chapter Text

The morning after dawned quietly.
Still in a way that only a snowy day can be, muffled, soft, as if someone had put cotton wool around the train. The winter express was now rolling smoothly over the tracks again, the storm had calmed, but the frosty white world outside remained dense, blurred and sparkling. Klein was up early. Of course he was. After the chaos of the previous day and the evening by the fire, where Leonard had sat next to him - much too close, much too warm - sleep had been harder to come by than usual anyway. But something in his chest felt lighter, as if someone had lit a candle there that continued to glow softly until morning. He checked the cars as always first: lamps, window locks, door mechanisms, the passages between the compartments, not even where the gears were installed or the small clock struck. The storm had left no damage, but there were signs of last night everywhere, blankets in corners, half-empty cups of cocoa, a forgotten pair of gloves that Audrey must have lent to someone. And then…a sheet of paper. It lay in the middle of the hallway, as if a gentle, warm, calm breeze had placed it there. Klein picked it up, tilting his head slightly.
Clean, elegant handwriting. Swirly letters. And he recognized it right away. Leonard's handwriting. The beginning of a poem. The ink was slightly smudged in one place, as if someone had brushed over it - perhaps thought about it, perhaps hesitated, perhaps... felt something.

> "Between Frost and Flame"
> I found a hand,
> which I never dared to keep,
> but I can recite it by heart now."

Klein stared at the lines until his cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. That was... that was clearly not a poem for the public. Not one of Leonard's usual dramatic, artistic, slightly over-the-top works. This was honest, tender, and soft like the winter morning itself. The frost flowers pulled along the window as always, before one could discover the frozen lake of the next town and station. Klein swallowed, carefully folded the sheet, and put it in the inner breast pocket of his conductor's jacket. He had to bring Leonard back, no matter what. And quickly, the poet would surely search frantically for it. Leonard was excellent with words, but surprisingly disorganized with loose papers. And, in fact, when Klein reached the lounge compartment, he saw it right away. Leonard stood there, his hair disheveled, his coat only half closed, his notebook open in his hand. He bent over the benches, lifted up cushions, searched the floor, the windowsill. And he spoke quietly to himself: "No... no, no, no... not this... where is—? I had it…, Klein had to smile. It was rare to see Leonard so unpolished, without his poetic demeanor, without the charming grin that he could otherwise put on so masterfully. Here he was... Leonard. A man desperately searching for a piece of his soul, a little bit of chaos. A single twinkling star in the sky trying to bring light through the clouds of his own chaos. Klein knocked twice softly on the door. "Leonard?" The poet turned around, his green eyes wide, almost frightened. "Klein! Did you... by any chance... see any paper? A few pages are missing from me... so I have... so... it must...", Klein pulled the sheet out of his pocket and held it up gently. "This one?" A deep, unmistakable relief flooded Leonard's face.
He exhaled as if he had held his breath for a long time. "Oh God, thank goodness…," he muttered and stepped closer. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the sheet, but he stopped before touching it. His eyes slowly lifted to Klein's. "You...read it?" a moment of silence. Klein could have lied. But he didn't want to. Not with him. Not with his poet, the rose of the winter night. "Just...a little. It was in the middle of the hallway. I wanted to make sure it wouldn't get lost.", he lowered his gaze slightly, almost guilty. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be curious.", Leonard still held his ground, not moving an inch. And for a long moment, it was as if the whole world had stopped, while outside the snow gently tapped on the windows. Then, a soft, brittle laugh, warm, softer than any poem. "Klein…you don't have to apologize," he took the paper with both hands, very carefully, as if it were something fragile. "These lines…" he took a deep breath. "They weren't meant for anyone. Not to show off. These are the thoughts that slip out when I'm not careful." Klein felt his heart make a small, misshapen jump, or rather like a snowball rolling and eventually falling off a cliff. "They…are beautiful," he finally said. "Very beautiful indeed." Leonard looked at him, a look as vulnerable and open as he had never seen before. "That makes it more frightening," he admitted. "It's easier to write something when nobody really sees it. When it only exists in the mind. But you…", he paused, as if searching for a phrase that wouldn't reveal too much. "You saw something that I can't even pretend to have seen," Klein opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had never had much talent for grand words. So he did what he could: He sat down next to Leonard on the windowsill. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for Leonard to feel that he wasn't alone. "I would never laugh at you," Klein said softly. "Not about what you feel. And not about what you write. Not at all, if it's...so real," a gentle shiver ran through Leonard, barely visible. His fingers brushed the edge of the paper, then - without thinking - they brushed Klein's palm. Just for a moment. Like a whisper. Like a question. Like a breath before a truth. "Thanks...Klein," Leonard finally whispered. "Not just for finding. But for...being that way," the warmth that spread between them was not like the fire from the previous evening. It was quieter, deeper, more personal, warmer. And for a while they just sat there, side by side, while the snow world passed by outside and the winter express glided quietly over the rails and in the poet's hands the lost page lay safely once again. When Klein asked quietly, "May I...read a poem of yours one day? One that you show me voluntarily?" Leonard smiled, so softly that Klein could hardly bear it. "One day...maybe even a whole one."

⊹ ₊ ⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡˚₊‧⁺ ₊ ⊹

The Winter Express rolled on smoothly as the silence in the lounge car grew thicker. Outside, the snow seemed to flow past in broad bands, as if the world had merged into a single white cloth that wrapped around the train. Inside, however, on the window seat, there was a different kind of quiet. A warm one. One that came from two hearts moving cautiously around each other. Leonard turned the found sheet in his fingers, tracing the writing as if he needed to make sure it was really back. Klein watched every one of his movements and caught himself enjoying this fragile, unfiltered side of the poet. "You hold it as if it were glass," Klein said finally, a small smile in his voice. Leonard looked up briefly. "It is too. At least...it feels like it could break if someone else really reads it," he paused and added, almost shamefully, "But you...didn't break it," Klein lowered his gaze slightly. "I would never destroy something that means something to you. Especially not something like this," Leonard thought for a moment, then carefully pushed the folded sheet back into his notebook. The movement was thoughtful, as if he were putting a secret back into its box. "Sometimes," Leonard began softly, "sometimes I'm afraid of feeling things. Or of someone noticing. I like to hide behind words because they can mask so well," Klein raised an eyebrow, but gently, not urgently. "And yesterday, by the fireplace? When you sat down next to me? Was that just a mask too?" Leonard's breath caught for a moment. His fingers remained on the notebook, still. "No," he said quietly. "Yesterday was...no intention. No role. No poem. It was Leonard Mitchell. The blooming rose of the winter night of the small star," He slowly raised his gaze, and Klein noticed how vulnerable the green eyes seemed. "It was just...myself. And you," Klein felt a tug in his chest, warm and unexpected. He slid a little closer, not much, just enough for their shoulders to touch lightly. Leonard squinted in surprise, but didn't back away. "Is that...okay?" Klein asked, unusually cautious. Leonard swallowed. "More than that." For a while they sat there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, as the train walls vibrated softly and the snow world sparkled as it passed by. Klein noticed how Leonard's breathing seemed to match his own, how he sometimes turned his head slightly toward him, as if he wanted to say something, but then preferred to keep the quiet closeness. Then, completely unexpectedly, Leonard raised his hand. Reluctantly. As if he didn't know if he was allowed to. His fingertips brushed against Klein's sleeve, just a touch, and then lingered there, as if this tiny touch was a promise. "It's...odd," Leonard muttered, "I'm always so good at observing the world. People, sounds, feelings, scenes. But with you...it's hard for me to keep my distance. I don't know why," Klein felt his ears warm, but he replied calmly:
"Maybe because I'm not a poem," Leonard laughed softly, a genuine, warm laugh. "No. You're...", he searched for words for a moment. For the first time, he couldn't find any immediately. "You're someone for whom words aren't enough. That scares me. And at the same time...I want to try again," He slowly placed his hand on Klein's forearm. Klein held his breath. "Leonard...", he began. "You don't have to say anything," Leonard's voice was barely a whisper. "It's enough for me that you're here," Klein turned her arm slightly so that their hands no longer just touched but - almost shyly - lay in each other, not firmly, not dramatically, just gently. Like two people who had learned to be careful and finally found someone they didn't have to be careful around. Outside, the snow fell quietly as the wheels rattled over the rails, and inside, in the warm, quiet compartment, the world held its breath for a moment. Only for them.

Chapter Text

The next morning began so quietly that it almost seemed as if the Winter Express had decided not to wake the passengers. The train's sounds, usually a constant rattling, clinking, and humming, were muffled, soft, almost sleepy. Only the smooth gliding of the wheels over the rails remained, like a soothing heartbeat of steel and warmth. Klein was one of the first to wake up. He stood in the corridor of the sleeping car, the headlight cast a soft, golden light on the carpets, and the scent of fresh tea, which someone was already preparing in the kitchen, gently crept through the car. He checked window locks and arranged displays, a quiet routine that helped him sort through the events of the past few days. Yesterday the storm, the fireplace evening, Leonard's closeness. His fingers unconsciously brushed against his forearm, where Leonard's hand had been. A quiet smile crept onto his lips before he cleared his throat and continued working with focus. But the smile remained. A secret, warm, almost youthful smile that wouldn't go away. When Klein left the sleeping car and entered the observation car, the world around him transformed. The snow from the storm was gone and now a sea of lights spread out in front of the train. At first, it was just a flicker on the edge of sight, a few individual, warm orbs hanging in the sky like small lost stars. But as the express continued to move, more and more appeared. The snow landscape began to glow as if someone had hidden millions of lanterns in a sea of white. Klein stepped closer to the window, his breath caught. Trees stood tall and still on either side of the path, but each branch had a light hanging from it. Some were warm like candle flames, others pale like winter moonlight, and others shimmered slightly pink or golden, as if little angels were flying over the branches. Between the trees hung light chains made of frosty crystals that danced when the wind from the ride touched them. The snow reflected everything, multiplied the light, until the world no longer looked like a forest, but like a realm that a wind spirit had blown into glass. "Unbelievable…", whispered Klein, without realizing it. Klein knew this route, but that was a surprise for the conductor, even for him. This light wasn't always there. He stood perfectly still and watched as the lights trembled as they passed by, casting patterns on the ground, spirals that twirled like dancing winter fairies. "You're up early," Klein said. Leonard stood in the doorway of the observation car, his hands loosely in his pockets, his hair slightly disheveled from too short a night. Morning softened the sharpness of his features. He seemed younger, softer, almost dreamlike. "I wanted to...", Leonard trailed off. His gaze drifted outside, and he immediately fell silent, awestruck. Like someone who wanted to believe in miracles and now saw one. "This isn't... naturally, or?" Leonard whispered, as if the air was too sacred to be cut through with sound. Klein shook his head. "No. But it's like this every year around this time. The farmers from the region call it the Lichterwehen. A tradition so old that no one knows how it started anymore. Even though I'm seeing it for the first time, it's beautiful.", he smiled slightly. "They say... the lights are wishes. Wishes that people hang up in the winter so they'll be fulfilled in the new year." Leonard stepped next to him, so close that their shoulders almost touched. "Wishes...", he repeated softly. His breath fogged the window for a moment, and the haze glowed in the reflected light. "What kind of wishes?" "All kinds," Klein replied. "Some wish for a good harvest. Others, that their children stay healthy. Some wish for love. Or forgiveness. Or something they don't dare hope for," a particularly large ball of light glided past them, so bright that it bathed the entire interior in warm gold. Leonard's face was bathed in this light, and Klein lost his words for a moment. As the ball continued to roll, the poet didn't let his gaze go. "And what about you, Little One?" His voice was soft, like a freshly written verse. "Do you have a wish?" Klein blinked. His heart was beating unexpectedly fast. "I... um...," he stammered, which was rare for him when speaking to Leonard. "Just one?" Leonard asked with a smirk. "One, yes. But... I don't know if it would fit in a light." Leonard's eyes softened, became more curious. "Maybe it doesn't need a place. Maybe it just needs... a listener." Heat rose in Klein's cheeks, a pleasant, quiet warmth that gave the whole scene a sense of intimacy. Before he could answer, the train entered a section where the sea of lights became denser, the world became bright. Unrealistically bright. The entire carriage was a golden dream. Leonard instinctively stepped closer, so their arms touched, a gentle pressure. Nothing intrusive, but enough so that Klein could not or would not flee. "Klein?" Leonard breathed. "What is your wish?" Klein looked out, into the sea of light that passed them by. And in that moment, he knew: The wish was no longer flickering, no longer uncertain. It had taken on a form, a face, a voice, Leonard's. But before he could answer, something happened, the train slowed slightly, the lights outside pulsed, and a single light ball broke off from a tree branch... and flew directly at the window. Like a star searching for a receiver, and Leonard and Klein stood right in front of it.

‪ଘ( ੭⁰̷̴͈ ᵕ ˘͈)੭* ✩

The light ball didn't fly fast. It hovered - really hovered - toward the window, as if it were a curious little creature that you fed rather than feared. Klein involuntarily held his breath as Leonard took a tiny step forward, as if he didn't want to scare the light away with his presence. Then the light ball touched the pane. For a heartbeat, the world was still. Even the train seemed to hold its breath for a moment. The light spread across the glass pane like a gentle sunrise, not blinding, but warm. Lines formed, fine, golden stripes that wove into a pattern. It looked like a frozen star that shone from within. Leonard slowly raised his hand. His fingertips touched the pane, directly under the light form. "It... feels warm," he muttered, surprised. He looked like he had just discovered a miracle, and maybe it was one. Leonard liked to be interested in stars, but even that was more than a miracle. Klein stepped closer too, until he stood next to Leonard. He placed his fingertips on another spot on the pane. He, too, felt the warmth, soft, delicate, not hot, but like the moment when a tea has just the right drinking temperature. "They're called Heart's Lights," Klein said quietly. He spoke without taking his eyes off the window. "The legend says... they choose who they let touch them," Leonard raised an eyebrow. "Choose?," a gentle smile played around his lips. "Then this one has just decided that we... are suitable." "Maybe it's just you," Klein said shyly, and would have liked to bite his tongue immediately for this sentence. Leonard turned his head slightly. Just a few centimeters, but enough for his eyes to find Kleins. "Or both of us," he corrected, and his voice was much too soft, much too gentle for Klein to remain calm. The star on the disc pulsates. Like a heartbeat. A slow, warm dum-dum that you couldn't hear, but could feel. Then the star began to fade. Not to disappear—no. It contracted, gathered its light, became smaller and smaller, until it was just a hazelnut-sized golden point. And then it detached from the disc. The small light core hovered a finger's breadth in the air, then two...then more. He turned once, as if he was considering where he belonged. Then he flew a gentle circle around the two men, like a smile of light. Klein felt his cheeks warm. Whether it was the light or Leonard's presence, he didn't know. However, for a moment, Leonard seemed to forget everything, his eccentric facade, every uncertainty, every lost verse of poetry. He looked like a kid who was seeing snow for the first time. "I... have never seen anything like this," he whispered. And it sounded like a confession. "I don't either," Klein said, because he had never seen one of the lights come towards anyone. The light spot made one last circle, then it hovered over his chest. He stopped there for a moment, as if he was touching something Klein couldn't see. Then... he fizzled out. Not like a flame, but like a dream that dissolves gently when you wake up. A few glittering grains floated to the ground and dissolved in the air. Leonard watched Klein. Not curious, not amused. But with a warmth that you only find in poems that are never published. "He chose you," Leonard said softly. "Or... your wish." Klein swallowed. His heart was pounding. "I... don't know. Maybe..." "Klein," Leonard's voice was soft but clear. Klein looked up. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to," Leonard continued. "But I want to know one thing," he stepped closer. So close that Klein could feel his breath. So close that you could believe they were the only people on the train. "Did the star recognize something in you that you can't tell me?" Klein briefly closed his eyes. The moment was too much, too warm, too beautiful, too close. "Maybe...", he whispered, barely audible. "Maybe he realized what I still don't fully understand," a gentle silence followed, a warm one, one that felt like an invisible scarf someone wrapped around them both. Leonard just nodded, not urging, not disappointed, understanding. Outside, the sea of lights grew brighter and more dense, as if the stars had decided to give them a little more time in this small, golden bubble. "Small?" Leonard asked quietly as the train reached another stretch of burning trees. "Yes...?" "Can I show you something?" Klein looked at him in surprise. "What?" Leonard smiled, a nearly shy, honest smile. Something I haven't shown to anyone yet. But... I think you'll understand," the train continued into the sea of lights. Morning turned to warm gold, and Klein sensed, without quite understanding it, that this day would change something between them. Leonard said nothing. He conceded to the moment its natural silence - a silence that shimmered like warm light in the lounge cars. The train still glided through the golden trees, and the outside lights danced over the upholstery, over the floor, over their faces, as if they were part of a fairy tale that wrote itself. Gently, Leonard placed a hand on Klein's elbow. Not firmly, not demanding, just a gentle sign. "Come with," he said softly. Klein nodded, even though his heart skipped a beat. Maybe even two. Leonard led him out of the lounge, down the narrow corridor, past shimmering windows where the sea of light rolled down like a golden flood. When they turned the corner, Leonard opened a door, not to his sleeping quarters, but to a small space that Klein usually knew only as a place to store suitcases. But this time there was no suitcase. Only Leonard and Klein, and the scent of paper and dried herbs. Leonard closed the door behind them. Not hastily, carefully, almost tenderly, as if he feared the air itself might shatter. "I...", he took a deep breath. "I told you before that I wanted to show you something. Something I've never given to anyone. And...I mean really to no one, Klein." He felt that Leonard was not nervous, but vulnerable. And that was almost even rarer. Slowly, Leonard loosened the top button of his coat and pulled something out of the inside pocket. A small notebook bound in cloth. Unlike the one he usually wrote in every day. The cloth was old, worn, some parts were almost white because they had been touched too many times. A keepsake. A memory. Maybe a piece of soul. Leonard held it in his hand for a while before giving it to Klein. His fingers didn't tremble, but they seemed... soft. As if he had decided to give up something precious. Klein took the book carefully. "Can I...?" "Just go ahead," said Leonard, and smiled weakly. Klein opened the cover. The first page was written in a childish handwriting, not by Leonard, another one. Playful, warm, imperfect letters.

> "For my big brother Leonard.
> Keep writing so you never stop dreaming.

Klein felt his breath catch.
He slowly looked at Leonard. Leonard's gaze had fallen into the corner of the room, as if he was afraid to look at his own past. "She was twelve," Leonard said quietly. "My little sister. I... never told you about her," Klein didn't close the book; he just held it a bit tighter. "Leonard... I didn't know..." "No," Leonard raised his hand, not in denial, just explanatory. "You couldn't have known. Nobody could. I never talked about it. Not even in Backlund," a pause. Then a breath that was heavier than any storm outside. "She died years ago. Before I even came to Tingen," his voice grew softer. "A disease, quick, unfair. And I...I wasn't there. I was on my way, searching for a future that seemed more important to me than anything else at the time," Klein felt his heart tighten, not from pity, but from a gentle pain that doesn't intrude, but sits quietly beside you. "This book…", Leonard looked at him again, this time without fear, but with something that burned. "She gave it to me before I left. So that I would never stop writing. So that I…I would remain myself," he laughed a bitter, very soft laugh. "Ironic, isn't it?"
I only found it again when I moved to Tingen. And since then, I carry it with me every day. The silence was warm, not tight, not oppressive. Klein took a half step closer. He still held the book as if it were a small life that you protect with two hands."Leonard…", he searched for the right words, the genuine ones, the gentle ones. Thank you for showing me that. I know how hard that must be," Leonard looked at him. "It's not hard," he stepped closer as well. His breath mingled with Klein's. They stood so close that the golden light streaming through the window bathed them both in warm honey. "It's not hard, Klein," he raised his hand as if to stroke his hair, but stopped short, waiting for the permission that Klein unspokenly gave by standing still. "It would have been hard...to carry it alone back then," his fingertips touched Klein's cheek. Only a fleeting, tiny line. Nothing more, but enough to make Klein's heart uneasy. "But now...", Leonard's voice became a whisper. "It's less difficult. Because you're here." Klein blinked. His gaze softened, uncertain, but brave enough not to avoid. "Leonard," he whispered. "I...am happy to be here." A gentle, honest smile appeared on Leonard's lips. Not the poetic, charming one, but the real one. He pressed his forehead to Klein's for a tiny moment. "Thank you." The train glided further through the endless sea of lights, and in the small compartment filled with old words and new warmth, the world held its breath for a moment. Just for the two of them.

Chapter Text

The morning was still young, the lamp in the lounge cast its soft light over the upholstery as Klein was just about to collect the last trays. The atmosphere in the carriage was relaxed, almost sleepy; only the soft rolling of the wheels and the occasional clinking of porcelain broke the silence. It was one of those moments when Klein divided the world around him into small, manageable tasks: two cups gone, three pillows fluffed, the blanket smoothed out in the corner. Routine, which calms. Then he stepped into the aisle and heard it: a soft but definite clap, followed by a voice, so loud and theatrical that even the train briefly stopped to listen. "Ladies and gentlemen! A little advance warning: This afternoon I will present -and I stress this- a highly exclusive, improvised miniature performance of the new drama 'The Echoes of the North Wind'!" The voice came from the compartment near the window seat, and when Klein opened the door, he stood in the middle of the room: a man, perhaps in his forties, with a garish, gold-embroidered waistcoat, a scarf that probably cost more than Klein's monthly salary, and a hat that sat so askew that it looked more like a decorative object than a piece of clothing. A small crowd of passengers -a few teenagers, some curious married couples- had already gathered around him, and all were looking expectantly. Klein sighed internally, but outwardly he remained the epitome of calm. "Good morning," he said with the more common, polite distance that his uniform demanded. "How can I help you?" The man made a nearly theatrical bow that kicked up a small dust cloud. "Ah, the well-known Mr. Moretti! A uniformed rescuer who understands the delicate inner workings of a train. I am Percival Hawthorne, director, dramaturg, occasional poet, and your today's provocateur of hearts," he winked so widely that Klein felt the man was winking at the entire car. Klein frowned, already mentally noting the possible problems: lounge renovation, special service, noise disturbance, additional guests. "Mr. Hawthorne, we value art on board," he said kindly but firmly. However, we have a timetable, and not all fellow passengers are prepared for loud events. May I ask how many people would be involved and how long your performance should last? Percival clapped his hands again as if Klein had asked the most interesting question. "Duration, fifteen minutes, at most, a compact explosion of emotion. Participants - just me and my charming companion, Miss Aurelia Fenn. However, with your permission, we could give the audience a small role. Interactivity, you know?" Interactivity jumped at Klein from the name itself. He envisioned lively viewers in pajamas, outraged travelers who wanted quiet cocoa. "Mr. Hawthorne, interactive contributions are possible if we inform the public beforehand and obtain their consent. Additionally, you must take into account the quiet hours and the children." "Consideration!" Percival exclaimed theatrically, raising an eyebrow as if consideration were a delicate spice in his repertoire. "Of course! I am a man of etiquette, Mr. Moretti. I will even sign if you wish.", he pulled out a small leather book from his pocket, opened it, and a paper unfolded, artfully labeled: an improvised contract. Klein took a deep breath. "I will discuss this with the team. In the meantime, I ask you to keep your ideas a bit quieter. He let his professional voice do the talking, the voice he used to handle conflicts like a routine: matter-of-fact, calm, reliable. As Klein talked on the phone - with the dining car chef, with the train dispatcher, with Frye, who was already nearby - Leonard watched the scene from the shadow of a sofa, his notebook open on his lap. He had a slight smile on his lips, which betrayed more amusement than mockery. Whenever Klein explained something or mentioned a rule, Leonard would nod and eagerly jot down a few words. Now and then his gaze would flash to Klein, as if he was fascinated by the way this man kept his composure despite all the excitement - and there was something tender in the gaze that unconsciously gave Klein more courage than he was given himself. As expected, Percival was charmingly persistent. He advocated for short scenes, verbal fireworks, poetic interludes, and dazzling costumes, which he allegedly had in his travel bag. He presented himself as an artist, indispensable, and the passengers, it seemed, drank this image right out of his hands. Some people chuckled, an older couple nodded in agreement, and a child clapped in delight. Klein juggled between politeness and the rulebook. The list of his tasks grew: He had to get the majority's approval, adjust the seating arrangement so that access wasn't blocked, brief the staff, pay attention to the volume, schedule a short break - and, not to forget, make sure that no flammable props came into play. "No open flames," he said clearly. "No fog machines in adjacent corridors. And please no heavy props that block stairs or passageways," Percival smiled boldly. "No drama without flames! But okay - we'll forgo real fire for aesthetic reasons. Some semblance, some light - and Miss Fenn will hold an imitation candle." He waved a small battery-powered light that was housed in a micro-LED box. Klein nodded. "That can work," he accepted the task, not because he loved theater so much, but because he knew how much such small experiences made the train and its passengers come alive. And besides: Leonard looked at him, this little amusement in his eyes, which said, "Do it, and be yourself." That was more an invitation than a command, and Klein felt a warm, quiet courage rise within him. The operation began: Klein politely asked for volunteers, distributed roles - a "chorus" to cheer and clap, a child for a "wish scene," two ladies who would act as spectators - and coordinated that no one would be too much disturbed. He regulated the volume, marked with a small red string the area where the small stage would be, and gave the dining car manager a sign that hot drinks should be ready during the break. As Klein worked, Percival spoke with brilliance, his words sometimes mild, sometimes fiery, and the audience hung on his every word. Leonard watched as Klein calmed a little girl who suddenly stared skeptically at the marked string, and then, with a gesture that was both professional and human, explained that it was called "Invisible Stage" and didn't really block anything. The girl squealed excitedly and ran off to claim her spot. When everything was finally arranged and the small performance was about to begin, Percival stepped onto the improvised stage - a rug laid over two chairs - bowed deeply, and the compartment erupted into soft, expectant murmurs. Leonard leaned back, his notebook in his hands like an old ritual, and his gaze sought Klein again. There was something like admiration in the poet's face, a gentle pride, as if he saw not only the conductor at work, but the person behind him. Klein stood on the edge, his hands behind his back, and watched. He was exhausted—logically after the organization—but his smile was genuine. And when Percival raised his voice and recited a line with dramatic pathos about "echoes wandering between tracks," Klein noticed Leonard quietly laughing. Not about the play, but with a pleasure that deeply touched Klein; it was the laughter of a person who loved the small comedy of life and watched others lovingly. As the final scene faded, the small candle illusion flickering, Percival shook hands with the congratulators for his applause, theatrically hugged Miss Fenn, and then bowed to Klein, the man who had made a small miracle out of rules and calm. "Mr. Moretti," he said with a tone that contained both gratitude and a hint of bravado, "without you, my masterpiece would have been just a dream. "You are my heroic guardian of discipline," Klein bowed slightly, routine keeping him upright. "It's just...our job, Mr. Hawthorne. I'm glad you liked it," Leonard stepped to Klein's side, placing a hand on his arm, not demonstratively, just a small, private gesture, and said quietly, so that only Klein could hear: "You handled that with the same enthusiasm as you usually handle trains. I think you have a talent for improvisation, Mr. Moretti. Or for appeasing exotic creatures," Klein felt his cheeks warm. "Thanks," he muttered. Percival, who had been watching the small scene, winked conspiratorially. "Ah! I see. A friendship that begins in the wings, how wonderful! Performative and yet real," Leonard laughed softly, and Klein stood a bit stiff, but inside he was glad that something cheerful had come out of the strenuous task. Outside the lights continued to glitter; inside a small, improvised performance brought people together, and somewhere between the curtain and applause, between rules and laughter, Klein felt something new, warm, and tender growing.

(ﾉ>ω<)ﾉ :｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

The wind whistled past the cars outside, but inside the Winter Express, the chaotic, warm chaos of human eccentricities continued to reign—and in the middle of it all stood Klein, the unwitting hero of eccentric enthrallers. After the third discussion about the exact temperature of a perfect winter atmosphere, he was just trying to sneak out of the compartment as unobtrusively as possible. He had only gone two steps when a door opened with such vehemence that it almost threw him back into the aisle. "Conductor Moretti! Finally! I have a most urgent matter!" Klein blinked. The older gentleman with the oversized fur hat and a scarf that seemed to be at least five meters long stared at him as if he was about to report a disaster of epic proportions. "How can I help you...?" "The snowflakes!" "The... snowflakes?" "Yes!" the man exclaimed excitedly, raising his arms. "They're not symmetrical enough! I insist that this train changes its route so that we drive through an area where they fall larger, rounder, and more harmonious! I have high artistic standards, young man!" Klein opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it again, and found that his words evaporated somewhere between incomprehension and polite professionalism. Behind him, he heard a noise. A gurgling, anguished noise. Then a cough. Another cough. And he knew immediately who was standing there. Just by the way the person was behaving. He turned around and saw Leonard, who was leaning against the doorframe of the lounge with a ridiculously bad acting innocence. His notebook was halfway under his arm, his mouth twitching dangerously. His green eyes sparkled. And every muscle in his body seemed to be fighting the urge to burst out laughing. In the end, he was just a poet who often got loud about things like this. "I...", Leonard cleared his throat. "I heard...snowflake complaints?" Klein threw him a look that was a mix of "Please don't laugh" and "If you say just one word, I'll never come near you again." Of course, it didn't help at all. The older man turned around, looked at Leonard, and bowed respectfully. "Ah! A poet. I recognize the aura of an artist right away. You surely understand me, don't you? A sensitive person recognizes the value of a perfect snowflake," Leonard straightened up a bit, his hand on his heart, and nodded with a serious expression, much too serious, no, a much too serious expression. "Of course, I understand you. Nature is a generous but sometimes uncouth partner in the artistic process. Sometimes it gives us beauty... sometimes just... muddy disappointments," Leonard said, which Klein did not miss, as he was referring to snow that was not really snow but just wet rain. The man gasped for air. "Exactly!" Klein stared at Leonard, who was having far more fun than was healthy. And while the two men talked about the aesthetics of ice crystals, the conductor tried to sneak into the next car, but unfortunately in vain. "Conductor Moretti! Stay here! I need your confirmation!" the man shouted. Klein stopped and audibly took a breath. Leonard raised an eyebrow and smiled. A warm, clearly far too cheerful smile. "Klein?" Leonard asked behind the man's back, quietly enough that only Klein heard. "What's your official stance on aesthetically deficient snowflakes?" "I...don't have one." "How unfortunate." The older man looked back and forth between the two. "So? Can you change the route?" "Unfortunately no," Klein said politely. "But I can offer you a warm spot near the window in the lounge. There, you have the best view of the...snowflake development," the man sounded surprised, then satisfied. "That's at least acceptable," he said, finally disappearing into the next compartment, and Klein briefly closed his eyes. Just a moment to regain my composure. Then he heard a soft giggle behind him. "If you start laughing," muttered Klein without turning around, "I'll throw you out of this car myself. Then you have your chance to look at your asymmetrical snowflakes, my dear poet." "I wouldn't resist," Leonard replied. His voice sounded warm and tinged with an unmistakable smile. "But, Little... they do it in an admirable way," Klein opened his eyes and turned around. Leonard was still leaning against the doorframe, his notebook now loosely in his hand, his green eyes full of warmth. "That wasn't admirable," Klein muttered. "That was... that was..." "Heroism," said Leonard. Klein blinked. "What?" "Heroism of everyday life. Someone has to save the world. Even if it's just from asymmetrical snowflakes," Klein snorted, quietly, he couldn't help it. "Besides," Leonard continued, coming a few steps closer, "it's impressive how calm you remain. Even if someone threatens you with "aesthetic disasters." "You would have laughed," Klein said. "I'm still laughing," Leonard said, and he did just that. Not loud, not exaggerated, but quiet, warm, soft. It was a nice laugh, and Klein only then noticed that his shoulders relaxed. "Come," Leonard said after a moment. "You look like you could use a break." I'll lend you five minutes of my poetic sense of time." "That's not a real sense of time." "Exactly. That makes it so valuable," Klein couldn't resist. He followed Leonard into the lounge, only for a moment, as he told himself. Leonard sat by the window, which was now covered in countless dancing snowflakes. He tapped on the seat beside him, an invitation, not a demand. Klein sat down and for a brief moment the noise of the train was far away. The snowflakes fell quietly, sparkling in the light, and Leonard's voice lowered to a quiet whisper. "See?" he said. "No matter what this man says...the asymmetry makes them more beautiful." Klein looked out and yes...the conductor had to agree with the poet. The snowflakes were wild, irregular, stubborn, but beautiful.

Chapter Text

Morning crept silently over the snow landscape, as if it were afraid of waking the winter express from its dreamy sounds. The train rolled steadily on, its metal body creaking in rhythm with the rails, as a sea of glittering white passed by outside. The snowflakes seemed almost to be floating, as if they were determined not to leave the sky. Inside, there was a muffling silence. Many passengers were still asleep or dozing with their eyes half-open. The heater hummed softly, occasionally accompanied by the muffled clinking of a cup or the quiet rustling of a newspaper. Klein had already completed his first rounds. He had checked the windows, adjusted some lights, and patiently listened to the complaints of a man who claimed the tea was too hot to drink—a contradiction that Klein had by now simply nodded off. After he had passed through the last sleeping compartments, something held him back—a feeling that pulled him gently but steadily. Perhaps it was the memory of last night, perhaps an instinctive knowledge. But no later than when he reached the lounge car and saw Leonard sitting there in the first light of morning, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Leonard was sitting by one of the large windows, wrapped in a blanket that someone had probably placed over his shoulders the night before. His hair was a bit tousled over his forehead, and the golden light of the new dawn shone through it, as if individual strands were threads of light themselves. His notebook lay open in front of him, the ink still glistening wet. Klein stopped. Just for a moment, to capture this sight. For in this early light, Leonard looked like the narrator of an old, forgotten story, and perhaps in a certain way he was. Just as Klein was considering to continue, Leonard raised his gaze. A soft, half-sleepy smile spread across his face. "Good morning, Klein." "Good morning," he replied and stepped a few steps closer. "I just wanted to check if everything is okay." "With me? Always." Leonard tapped the seat beside him. "Take a seat for a moment. There's something special about this morning." Klein hesitated, only briefly, then followed the invitation and sat down next to the poet. The glass felt cold, even through the warmth in the carriage, and the world outside seemed endless. Leonard stared out silently for a moment. His gaze wandered to the snow, which glittered like stardust. "You know," Leonard began, his voice calm, deep, and full of stories, "this train has a legend," Klein turned to him. "A legend?" Leonard nodded slowly. "Not one you find in books. More like something travelers whisper when they think no one is listening. An old story about the origin of the Winter Express," he closed his notebook as if concluding some sort of ritual and turned slightly to Klein. "It's said," he began, "that this train was once not made of metal and wood...but of light," Klein furrowed his brow slightly. "Of light?" "Yes," Leonard smiled, but not mockingly—but like someone telling a story that means something to him. Some claim that the Winter Express rode through a particularly harsh winter night many decades ago, through a storm so dense that the train's lanterns barely reached an arm's length. The passengers were afraid. The crew didn't know if they would even find the tracks. Everything was full of snow, the sky and earth indistinguishable from one another, Klein listened. The rhythm of the train perfectly underscored Leonard's words. "And then," the poet continued, "a light appeared. Not far ahead, but directly on the train. Some say it was a spirit of winter. Others, that it was a kind of protective being. Some even call it the 'Guardian of the Journey.' What it was exactly, the voices argue. But this light - warm, golden, clear - hovered over the locomotive and guided the train through the storm. Hour after hour. Until they had safe ground under the wheels again," Leonard raised his hand and pointed outside. "Since then, it is said that this light accompanies the Winter Express on every journey. Invisible to most. Sometimes it shows itself. In quiet moments. In the reflections of a window. In a spark somewhere on the horizon," Klein looked out. The thought made him sink deeper into his seat, as if he was suddenly becoming part of this legend. "Do you believe in stories like that?" he finally asked. Leonard looked at him for a long time. "I believe," he said softly, "in things that make people warmer. That's enough for me," it was a sentence that resonated in Klein. For a moment, there was silence - a beautiful silence. One that the train itself seemed to hold. "It's also said," Leonard continued, "that the Winter Express always brings people exactly where they need to be. Not necessarily where they want to be." Klein turned to him. "That sounds... comforting." "Or unsettling," Leonard replied with a thin but warm smile. "It all depends on the person." "And what do you hope for?" Klein asked softly. Leonard's eyes drifted back to the window, and after a long breath, he said, "To the fact that this train might bring me...something I thought I lost." It wasn't a clear answer. But one that was as heavy as snow and as light as a breath of warmth.

✩°｡⋆⸜(ू｡•ω•｡)

The words between them hung in the air for a moment, like delicate snowflakes that couldn't decide where to fall. Klein looked at Leonard for one more heartbeat, then he slowly exhaled. Something in this conversation, in the legend, and in Leonard's voice had deeply touched him. Perhaps that was why he impulsively said, "Come with me. I want to show you something," Leonard blinked, surprised. "Show me something?" "Yes... if you want to." Klein stood up, and the morning light cast a warm glow on his movements. "Trust me," Leonard closed his notebook and stood up as well. "I've trusted you for a long time, Klein," the sentence hit Klein unexpectedly deep, but he didn't answer. Instead, he led the poet through the lounge, past sleeping passengers and quietly rustling blankets, through a narrow corridor until they reached the back of the Winter Express. It was quieter here. The steps echoed softly on the floor, and the farther they came, the more the air seemed to change. It became fresher, clearer. As if the walls themselves were breathing. "Where... exactly are we going?" Leonard finally asked, a mix of curiosity and mild wonder in his voice. "To the last car. It's rarely used. Actually only for special occasions or observation rides. But today...today is different," Klein placed his hand on the old brass door with delicate ice crystal pattern ornaments. For a moment he listened, as if the train itself had shared something with him. Then he pressed the handle, the door swung open. The room behind was large, open, and equipped with a half-arched glass wall that faced directly outside. A panoramic dome made of clear crystalline glass spanned the entire car. And behind it...was the sky. A sky that was still dark blue in the early morning, but suddenly - as if out of nowhere - was traversed by a veil of radiant colors. At first, only a shimmering green. Then a soft, pulsating gold. The snow in front of the train reflected the light, and the tracks seemed to have started glowing themselves. Leonard stopped, breathless. "That's...", "Aurora," Klein completed the sentence in a whisper. "It formed a few minutes ago. When I did my rounds, I thought...they should see this." Slowly, Leonard approached. The light reflected in his eyes, making the green irises glimmer like two precious stones. Klein had rarely seen the poet so speechless and yet so alive. "It looks like the sky is writing stories," Leonard finally muttered. Klein smiled. "Maybe it is." The sky began to move. Delicate veils danced across the glass ceiling, like shimmering ribbons of light. They drew lines, curves, and whirlpools, as if the firmament itself wanted to perform a dance for the two, just for this moment, just for this place. Leonard stepped even closer to the glass wall and placed a hand against it, without really touching it, as if he was afraid of destroying the illusion. "I've...never seen anything like it." "Not many," Klein replied. "And especially not from here," they stood side by side. The warmth of their bodies didn't touch directly, but it was palpable, a gentle pulsing that spread between them. Leonard raised his voice barely audible. "Now I understand why you brought me here." Klein turned to him. "Why?" Leonard looked at him for a moment, a long, silent, meaningful moment. "Because such lights...are easier to bear when someone is standing next to you." Klein felt his heart let out a silent beat. Almost imperceptibly, his hand slid a little closer to Leonard's on the seat. Their fingers didn't touch, but the warmth in that tiny space felt like it could melt ice. For a while, they said nothing, the northern lights danced above them, undulating like a living creature and bathing the entire compartment in flowing green, purple, and gold. At some point, Leonard whispered, "You know...as a child, I thought the northern lights were the brushstrokes of a poet god." Klein looked at him, surprised and amused. "That sounds very much like you." "Maybe." Leonard smiled softly. "But sometimes...when I see something like this...I still believe it." "Then," said Klein, "I'm glad you're experiencing this, that you're here." Leonard lowered his gaze for a moment. Then he picked him up again, and there was an unexpected expression in his eyes, something soft, something uncertain, something beautiful. "Me too, Klein," the Northern Lights pulled one last big wave across the sky, colorful, bright, and immersed the two in an unrealistically beautiful play of light, and in that moment - that quiet, sparkling, eternally brief moment - it felt as if the Winter Express was indeed a train of light, as in the legend. As if he were carrying them exactly to where they needed to be.

Chapter Text

The morning began unusually still. The Winter Express glided through the snow-covered landscape in a gentle rhythm, and the early-day light fell through the windows of the lounge car in soft, pale golden strips. Normally, it was already pleasantly warm at this time: the large fireplace at the front of the lounge usually spread a uniform, cozy flicker that welcomed guests at breakfast. But today... the fireplace was dark. The room felt colder than usual, the air unusually sharp. A fine hint of frost lay over the wood of the floor, and even the seat cushions seemed stiff, as if they had frozen overnight. Klein was the first to notice. He was up and about before most of the passengers, as he always was. With a cup of hot tea in his hand, he stood in the lounge, surveying the room, his thoughts still half on the legend Leonard had told him the day before, the whispering conductor, the light in the snow, the soul of the express. But now reality pulled him back. He looked at the dark fireplace, furrowed his brow. "That... isn't good." Klein set the cup down and knelt in front of the fireplace. The ashtray was cold. No spark was glowing. Even the train, which had been alive in the last few days, seemed a bit quieter this morning. A soft noise came from behind him. "When the fireplace is silent, Winter Express is in a bad mood," Klein didn't even have to look to know who had spoken. Leonard's voice was unmistakable, warm, sleepy, and with that slight rough edge he only had early in the morning. Klein turned around. Leonard stood in the doorway of the lounge, his hair a bit tousled, his scarf halfway around his shoulders as if he had almost lost it on the way. His notebook was wedged under his arm, obviously tucked in in a hurry. And yet he smiled, a tired, mischievous smile that threw Klein off balance every time. "Good morning, Leonard," Klein cleared his throat. "The fireplace is out." "I see that." Leonard stepped closer, his hands buried in the pockets of his dark winter coat. "And I suppose that's...not the normal state?""Definitely not," Klein stood up and rubbed his hands together. It was really cold. "If the fireplace fails," he began to explain, "the lounge car starts to cool down. And the older guests will feel uncomfortable. I need to fix this as soon as possible," Leonard smiled. "Of course, without you, the express would probably get stuck in the snow." Klein felt the heat in his cheeks, even though it was cold in the room. "You're exaggerating." "Me? Never," Leonard raised an eyebrow and looked at him with a gaze that was a mix of seriousness, humor, and something unspoken. Klein quickly turned back to the fireplace. "I have to figure out why it stopped working," he said, opening the small brass cover of the maintenance shaft. A cold draft blew out. Leonard furrowed his brow slightly. "It's drafty." "That means," muttered Klein, leaning in, "that the draft connection to the stove is blocked. Or...", he pulled himself up on his knees a bit further. "A fuse has blown." Leonard watched him in silence for a moment. Then he stepped closer and crouched down beside him, without inviting him or asking. Just close enough that Klein could feel his warmth. "Can I help you?" Klein blinked, surprised. "You don't have to—" "I know," Leonard's voice softened. "But I do." For a fraction of a second, Klein's heart beat faster. He felt the cold of the fireplace and at the same time the subtle warmth that Leonard radiated. "Then... could you hold the small lamp over there for me?" He pointed to an old but reliable emergency light that stood on the table. "Of course." Leonard took the lamp, and as he held it next to Klein's hands, his fingertips brushed against Klein's jacket sleeve. A barely perceptible contact, yet still felt. Klein swallowed and focused on the screws inside the fireplace. "It's the heat distribution line," he muttered. "It's blocked. It's probably frozen by the snowstorm from the day before yesterday." Leonard leaned forward, his breath brushing against Klein's cheek. "Can you fix it?" "Yes... but I have to go to the adjacent room, the technical compartment behind the wagon. That's where the right valve connection is. It may take some time," Leonard was silent for a moment. Then: "Then I'll go with you," Klein looked at him surprised. "That's not necessary, really-" "I know." Leonard smiled. "But if you think I'll send you alone into a cold machine room after the express almost froze in the storm... then you don't know me well," Klein didn't know what to say to that. His heart was doing something strange in his chest. "Okay... but put on a thick jacket. It's cold there. It might also happen that we have to go forward to the front of the locomotive." "I follow your advice like a law," Klein had to laugh, a warm, frightened, genuine laugh. Leonard's gaze brightened slightly, as if this laugh was more valuable to him than any poetic line. Klein closed the brass flap again. "Come. We must be quick before the carriage cools too much." "As you wish, Mr. Conductor," Leonard bowed slightly. "Or should I say: Mr. Keeper of the Fire?" "Stop it," muttered Klein, blushing. Leonard laughed softly. They set off together, after Leonard had put on something warm, understandably, to the technical department, and when Klein opened the door to let the cold draft out, he felt the gentle presence of Leonard beside him, warm, attentive, and closer than necessary. Quietly, Klein thought: Maybe you don't even need a fireplace if someone like him is standing next to you.

ᜊ( ‘ ⩊ ‘𖦹)ᜊ

The path to the front, to the head of the train, was more difficult than usual. The winter morning had gotten colder. It was still warm enough in the compartments, but every step towards the locomotive brought a distinctly noticeable drop in temperature. "Is it always so frosty up there?" asked Leonard, as he adjusted his scarf. The tip of his nose was already slightly reddened. "Only when the chimney fails and the front pipes don't give off enough heat," explained Klein, who walked through the narrowing corridor with practiced steps. "The locomotive gets its additional heat through the rear valve system, which is what we need to repair." "So the cozy atmosphere of the entire train depends on a few old pipes?" "On old pipes and..." Klein looked at him briefly, smiling. “…the staff who fixes them.” “Ah.”, Leonard nodded meaningfully. "Then the express is in good hands," Klein shrugged, embarrassed, and opened the heavy door that led to the small platform that separated the lounge from the engine area. An icy wind hit them. Snow crystals had stuck to the handrail. The locomotive's wheels screeched in front, muffled and powerful, accompanied by the deep, steady heartbeat of the machine. "Stay right behind me," Klein said and stepped out. Leonard followed, without hesitation, but with noticeable amazement at the raw power of the train directly in front of them. "Good heavens...this is louder than I expected." "It's the strongest steam locomotive in this region and one of the oldest and still preserved models."
Klein had to project his voice against the wind. "But she listens to me," Leonard looked at him, curious. "And I assume that's not a metaphor?" "No," Klein grinned. "I've spent years with her and experienced everything. I wouldn't be surprised if more crazy things happened on this trip," they reached the narrow iron door to the engine room. Klein pushed against it, and the hot steam that flowed toward them was a stark contrast to the cold outside. "Right with you," he said to Leonard and held the door open. The poet entered, squinting from the heat that hit him. "It's...like a dragon's breath." "That's a very fitting description, we should record that. Entering the dragon's mouth...", Klein muttered and followed him. It was cramped, loud, and filled with a warm, metallic smell. The pipes ran through the room like twisted veins, some glowing, some covered in frost. And there, at the back valve, it was immediately visible. A thick layer of ice had formed over the pipe. Crystals locked the metal connection like a spider web and didn't want to leave so quickly either. "That's the problem," said Klein, he knelt down, removed his gloves, and carefully examined the spot. Leonard stood next to him, holding the lamp. The yellowish light trembled slightly in his hand and cast its own shadows on the wall with the pipes. "Can I do something?" he asked calmly, before Klein nodded. "I need you to loosen the bracket up there," he pointed to a higher screw. "The metal must be relaxed first before we melt the ice." Leonard put the lamp down, rolled up his sleeves wordlessly, and reached for the tool. Klein stared up at him for a moment. "What?" "Nothing," Klein smiled slightly. "I didn't expect a poet to be so...practical." "I worked in an old print shop for three months," Leonard replied, setting the tool down. "If you're not careful, a machine like that can eat you up faster than you can write a poem about it." "That sounds...dangerous." "It was." Leonard grinned crookedly. "But I survived. Maybe that's why." The screw squeaked as he loosened it. "Good," Klein said. "Now carefully...just a piece." "A piece." Leonard loosened it carefully, slower than Klein expected. His fingers were more steady than some of the mechanics Klein knew. "Perfect.", Klein took a small flame from a fuse device and began carefully melting the ice layer on the line. Steam rose, the metal groaned. Leonard knelt beside him, holding the lamp so that it wouldn't blind him. A moment arose, still, despite the noise of the locomotive. A moment when their shoulders touched. In which the heat of the engine room and the cold of the pipe formed a nearly magical contrast, and small sparks flew. Leonard felt Klein so close that he could smell the paper, tea, and winter perfume. "Take care of your hands," Leonard muttered quietly. "I know," Klein replied just as quietly. The ice broke, a dull, short sound. Steam flowed from the pipe in a warm breeze. "It works again," Klein whispered, almost reverently. "Will it get warm again on the train?" "In a few minutes, yes." Leonard exhaled in relief. "Good. I don't want the kids to freeze in the lounge car," Klein looked at him from the side. "They care a lot about others." Leonard paused, surprised, almost caught, then smiled softly. "Because... someone showed me how to do it," Klein's chest tightened briefly. He didn't know what to say. So he simply said, "Thank you." Leonard looked at him for a long time. "Thank you," then, without warning, he placed a hand on Klein's shoulder for a brief, light moment. Warmth, gentle, honest. A heartbeat longer than perhaps usual, but not enough to be considered definitive. Klein felt the touch all the way to his heart. "Let's get back," Klein finally said, his voice a bit rough. "The others are waiting." "Yes." Leonard reached for the lamp. "And maybe... it's warm enough now to drink tea without freezing." "I'll make you one," Klein said. "Then I'll definitely go with you," but before they could put that into action, something unexpected happened. The train suddenly braked and Klein stumbled through this intense jolt against Leonard. The other caught him gently and held him briefly. "Is everything okay?" the poet asked the conductor, who just nodded. "Yes, everything is okay. However, I don't think that's the case with the locomotive," he then said worriedly as Leonard helped him back on his feet. "Then let's see what the problem is," he said to the other. Klein wiped the soot from his jacket, adjusted his cap, and stood up straight again. The jolt of the locomotive still lingered in his bones, and the sudden proximity to Leonard had completely thrown his thoughts off track for a moment. But now, the locomotive was calling to him. And the express was calling for peace. "We should hurry," Klein said, already running down the narrow corridor. Leonard followed close behind. "If the train brakes so abruptly, it's rarely a good sign." "No," Klein confirmed. "That wasn't a normal braking procedure. That was an emergency stop." The sounds of the express grew louder as they approached the locomotive: the deep rumble of the boiler, the wheezing of the wheels, the irregular breaths of the massive metal body. Klein felt a tingling tension run through him—a mix of responsibility, concern, and something else he couldn't quite name. Leonard remained surprisingly calm behind him. When they reached the door to the driver's cab, Klein knocked twice, hard and short, before he pushed it open. Inside, two exhausted train workers and the train driver himself looked up. "Thank God!" the train driver, a sturdy man with a gray beard and oil-smeared hands, exclaimed. "Klein, we have a problem." "I noticed it," Klein said. "What happened?" The train driver pointed out the window, out onto the icy track. "The switches aren't working anymore. The ice grew like crazy overnight—suddenly we had hardly any control. The locomotive had slipped a bit and would have almost veered onto the wrong track," Klein stared out. Smooth, silvery-shimmering ice, which glittered like a frozen wave in the light of the lanterns. A beautiful, but dangerous sight. Leonard stepped closer. "Can you...fix it?" the locomotive driver sighed. "We can't de-ice the switches. We don't have the time. But we can still make it—if someone from the outside takes over navigation," Klein immediately looked at Leonard. Leonard knew what this look meant. "You want to get out? Again?" "I have to," Klein nodded firmly. "I know the route. I know the signs of the iced rails. And...I've done this before," the train driver crossed his arms. "It would be easier...if someone went with me who could relay the signals from inside the locomotive cab," Leonard raised a hand. "I'll do it," Klein turned to him abruptly. "No! That's too dangerous," Leonard closed his eyes for a moment and then smiled softly. "Klein...I trust you. And I'm not made of glass," a brief moment of tension stretched between them, warm and resistant at the same time. Finally, Klein nodded, even though he felt his heart grow heavy with the thought. "Good... but you stay behind me. And you do only what I tell you." "As always," Leonard said dryly, and Klein snorted slightly. The two put on thick coats, grabbed the signal gloves, and stepped out into the early morning's biting cold. The wind had picked up, but it was not a storm—just a sharp, clear winter breeze that made the air vibrate. The express lurched forward slowly, barely faster than a walking person. The ice glittered beneath them, smooth as polished steel. "Stay close," Klein said over his shoulder and took the first step onto the running board. Leonard followed immediately. The train driver called out the window: "We only have one chance! If we don't hit the turn cleanly, we'll end up on the side slope!" Klein raised her hand to signal. The train began to move. The ice beneath the wheels cracked, and the train lurched. Leonard gasped in surprise, but immediately grabbed the metal support. "Heaven... this feels like a ship in a storm!" "That's what it is," Klein replied. "A steel ship." They walked slowly forward, Klein leading, Leonard half a step behind. Her breath immediately turned into white clouds in the cold air. "Left... a bit more!" Klein called out, waving his hand. Leonard repeated it, loudly, visibly, and the conductor inside responded with a brief horn signal. The train pushed into the curve. The wheels squeaked on the ice, they were not sliding, no, they were fighting. Leonard held his breath. Klein called out again, "Left again!" Leonard repeated it. The express followed and the ice creaked so loudly that Leonard jumped. But Klein remained calm. He knew every bump. Every turn. Every breath of this old locomotive. He was used to such things by now. For a while they continued in silence, only the creaking of the ice accompanied them. Then, quietly, as if it were a secret, Leonard said, "You know... you never seem more alive than in moments like these." "What do you mean by that…?""So," Leonard gestured around him. "When you're driving the locomotive. When you're protecting the train. When all these people rely on you and you move as if this is second nature to you," Klein didn't know what to say.
So he just said, "Thanks," and in the distance the next slope appeared. The most dangerous place. The ice there was smooth as glass. "Leonard... watch out. This is going to get rough," Klein warned, and the next second the train slipped. The entire express drifted sideways. A sharp, unpleasant high-pitched sound rattled along beneath them. Leonard briefly lost his footing, Klein pulled him back by his jacket and held him tight. "I got you! Hold on to me!" Leonard did so, both of them pressed against the railing, and Klein shouted, "Right! Full right!!" Leonard passed on the signal. The train driver reacted immediately. The train lurched, slid, scratched across the ice like a raging animal, and then…a jerk, a crash, the final scream of the rails. The train steadied itself, it stabilized. And the Winter Express continued on its course. Leonard leaned against Klein for a while, his hands firmly clutching his coat. It wasn't until after a few breaths that he slowly broke free. "I... I was sure for a moment that we were going to die," he admitted in a low tone. "Not on my watch," Klein said calmly. "As long as I'm in front, this train won't derail." "I believe you," Leonard said, and it sounded so honest that Klein had to look away for a moment. They continued, this time closer together, shoulder to shoulder, as the express regained stability like a large, panting animal and left the ice behind them. When they finally returned to the locomotive cab, they were immediately greeted by the engineer. "You two saved our necks," said the gray-bearded man, shaking their hands. "That was masterful," Klein nodded, exhausted. "It's over... we're back on safe track," Leonard exhaled slowly, then looked at Klein with a gentle smile. "I think... now I really earned my tea." "I'll make you three right now," Klein said, and for the first time in minutes, both laughed, quietly, warmly, and with relief, as the winter express moved again, calm and proud as always

Chapter Text

The evening slowly descended over the Winter Express like a silken, violet veil. The last sounds of the day, muffled laughter, the soft clinking of cups, the occasional squeak of a wheel, gradually faded away until only the soft rumble of the wheels remained. The warmth of the newly lit fireplace had bathed the lounge in a golden glow, and many of the passengers had already retreated to their cabins. The excitement of the snowstorm, the feverish work on the locomotive, and the subsequent calm had rolled over everyone like a small wave, which was now slowly receding. Klein had just been collecting the last cups that had been forgotten by the guests in the afternoon. His hands worked routinely, but his gaze kept drifting to the window. Outside, the world lay like a dark sea of snow and shadow. Only now and then did the landscape glow silvery in the moonlight. He was tired, but not exhausted. Rather... fulfilled. It was the kind of tiredness that made his whole body warm. The kind you feel when something significant has happened. As he wiped the last table, he heard footsteps behind him. Soft, quiet footsteps. He knew who it was before he turned around. Leonard stood in the doorway of the lounge. His silhouette was outlined in the light of the fireplace: slender, elegant, with a coat that shimmered slightly as if fine frost crystals had clung to it. His hair was a bit disheveled, not unkempt, but rather in that poetic, effortlessly aesthetic way that Klein had almost grown accustomed to. "You're still working," Leonard said, his voice muffled, not quite a whisper, but close. "I just wanted to clean up before the night really starts," Klein replied, putting the cup down and standing up straight. "Finally, it should look nice here tomorrow," Leonard stepped closer, the glow of the fire warmly reflected in his green eyes. "The express would have been lost in chaos long ago without you," Klein whispered with a laugh. "You're exaggerating again." "Maybe," Leonard admitted, "but only a little. Oh no, I'm always like that, you're right, Klein." For a moment, a pleasant silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the steady hum of the moving train. Then Leonard slowly raised his head. "I... had a thought. A wish, actually," Leonard's tone softened, almost shy, a rare sight in him. "Would you... like to come up? To the panorama platform? I've wanted to get out all day, but...," he trailed off, Klein understood. The storm, the fear, the stress, it had all left its mark. "Of course I'll come, I could treat myself to something nice," he replied softly. More than he needed to say, more than he would have said otherwise. Leonard breathed out visibly, as if he hadn't expected it, although he had wished for it, and they left the lounge together. The corridors of the express were quiet and semi-dark. Only the small, warm lights on the walls were still burning, casting gentle shadows on their movements. A soft melody sounded somewhere. Klein suspected it came from one of the compartments. Their footsteps echoed muffled on the carpet as they moved slowly towards the rear carriage. The closer they got to the end of the train, the colder the air became. A light, clear frosty smell was in it, a harbinger of the open platform. Klein raised her shoulders slightly, not from the cold, but from anticipation. "I haven't been up there at night in a long time," Klein admitted as they reached the heavy door to the panorama section. "I used to go up almost every evening, but I went less often over time. Especially since we've mostly skipped this section lately. It's...like touching the sky." "I hope so," Leonard said quietly. "I need something today that reminds me of how beautiful the world can be. A soft wind blew towards them, fresh but not biting, more like a cool greeting. Leonard stopped, completely still, as if he had lost his breath. His green eyes roamed over this sea. The pine green in his eyes began to sparkle and shine. Intense, gentle, and warm. But there was also a slight disbelief in this look. "That...is...", he didn't finish the sentence. Klein stepped beside him, leaned slightly against the railing and let his gaze wander to the sky. The stars reflected in his brown eyes. "Yes," he just said. "That's it." Next to him, Leonard looked at him briefly, and a smile, a real, honest one, not faked, slid over his lips. "Thanks for coming." "I'd rather be nowhere else," Klein replied. And so they stood there, two men, a train, a night full of stars. The express continued on quietly, the wind sang softly, and above them the sky spread its sparkling winter dress. Kleins brown eyes met Leonard's gaze, and he had to smile. It seemed to him that he was seeing a much larger galaxy in Leonard's eyes. "Leonard, your eyes remind me of a galaxy of stars that is even farther and more unfathomable than the ones we see here," he whispered softly, and Leonard's cheeks grew warm and he scratched his head briefly and embarrassed. "Thank you...", he mumbled to Klein before his gaze fell on the landscape.

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊

The train was just crossing the track at one of the larger lakes. The snow glistened in the night light as the thin ice on the lake began to shimmer. Cold, icy air blew by before light snow trickled down again. "We'll probably reach the next station tomorrow, then it'll be another long drive," Klein said, his gaze drifting over the snow-covered landscape. The snowfall intensified, but the beautiful stars in the sky could still be seen, which leonard continued to observe. Klein stepped away from the railing and disappeared briefly into the wagon again, as he wanted to get something. It didn't take Klein more than 5 minutes to get back to Leonard. "Here, a punch so it doesn't get too cold here," and he handed the cup to the other, and the poet thanked him for it. Then Klein stood again next to the poet and warmed his hands, which were in warm gloves, once more with the cup, which now contained the reddish liquid called punch. Klein thought the punch still tasted better than mulled wine. It would probably not be good for him to drink alcohol while he is working. That's why the punch did too. The Winter Express passed a small chain of hills before entering a valley, and the dense fog swallowed the Express. The snowflakes grew wilder, and the poet and the conductor both had the whitest hair they would ever have within an hour. The snowflakes had quickly settled in their hair, and it looked worse on Leonard because he had long, black hair. Klein couldn't help but laugh out loud when he saw the others again, as the fog had cleared up a bit. "You could be mistaken for a tree," Klein said, running his fingers through his hair and brushing off some of the snowflakes, before he also smiled slightly. "As long as we don't turn into snowmen, everything is fine. We just got our shower a little earlier," Leonard replied with a laugh, referring to his now slightly wet hair. Klein nodded slightly and grinned before carefully drinking some of his punch, as he had still remained hot despite the cold outside. About half a minute later, the fog cleared and the train rattled over a few uneven rails, partly also ice, as Klein often felt that the train was going a bit faster and then slower. Klein looked back and now you could see that the fog had gathered in the small valley and was now lying over it like a cloud cover. It had a magical effect, and Klein was constantly amazed by nature. But he knew that wouldn't be the last thing that would happen that night. He had been working here at the express for a while now, after all. That was exactly why he had agreed to Leonard's question. There was another phenomenon Leonard had to see. The train continued on its way, passing through a wooded area, a small pond, and then onto a large open area. This was probably the best place to view the stars, but also something else. She appeared. The Aurora Borealis. In the bright colors, she danced across the night sky and even Leonard gazed at her in wonder. "It was a good idea, Leonard," Klein replied, tapping him lightly on the side. The other nodded and smiled. The colors blue to green reflected in the fir's green eyes, making this evening magical.

Chapter Text

The cold on the panoramic platform had taken on a quiet, clear sharpness by now. No more biting wind, no storm, just this pure winter air that made every breath more conscious. The Winter Express glided smoothly, almost silently, as if the train itself had decided not to disturb the moment. Above them, the sky stretched out in all its depth. Stars were scattered within it like forgotten thoughts, like sparks from another world. Some glowed calmly and steadily, while others seemed to flicker, as if they were whispering to each other. Klein leaned his forearms on the railing, his breath rising like a fine mist. Beside him stood Leonard, his head tilted back, his green eyes wide open, as if he wanted to keep every single light for himself. "Do you see that over there?" Leonard asked quietly, slowly raising his hand, not really to point—more to draw. His fingers moved through the air, connecting invisible lines between the stars. "That's the hunter. Or at least...what people wanted to see in it," Klein followed his gaze. He blinked, searching for the points, taking his time. "I think I see him," he finally said. "Or...maybe I'm just imagining it." Leonard smiled. "That's the trick with constellations," he muttered. "They only exist when someone wants to see them." A few seconds passed in silence. The train continued, the landscape passing beneath them like a dark stream. Then Klein pointed to another spot in the sky. "And this? This line...it seems calmer." Leonard stepped half a step closer, so close that their shoulders almost touched. "That's the wanderer," he explained. "They say he always finds his way back. No matter how far he went.", Klein lowered his gaze slightly. "That sounds... comforting." "It is," Leonard said softly. His voice had taken on this gentle tone that Klein had come to know well, the one that came when Leonard wasn't rhyming, but speaking honestly. A cold breeze blew across the platform. Without much thought, Klein pulled his coat a bit tighter and only then noticed that Leonard was hesitating. Soon after, Leonard draped his scarf over Klein's shoulder, a nearly casual gesture as if by accident. "That way you'll freeze less," he said simply. Klein looked at him, just a glance, warm and still. "Thanks." They were now very close, sharing the warmth without saying it. The sky above them seemed to open up further, as if it noticed their closeness. Leonard pointed to a small, unremarkable field of stars. "I like this one," he said. "It doesn't have a big name. No legend. It's just... there." "Like some people," Klein replied quietly. Leonard turned his head to him. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Leonard smiled, softly, honestly, almost a little vulnerable. "Maybe these are the most important ones," he whispered. Above them, the stars continued to twinkle, unwavering, timeless, and as the winter express glided quietly through the night, Klein and Leonard stood there, two figures in the cold light of the sky, connected by warmth, closeness, and the quiet feeling of being exactly in the right place.

(★≧▽^))★☆

For a while, they just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sky breathe. The train rocked gently beneath their feet, barely more than a soothing lullaby, as if it wanted to hold them in that moment. Leonard finally broke the silence. "There's a constellation," he began softly, almost hesitantly, "that I never talk about otherwise." Klein turned slightly to him. Not inquisitively intrusive, but open, ready to listen. "Then...you don't have to," he said calmly. Leonard shook his head, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "But you have.", he raised his gaze to the sky again and searched for a while until his eyes became calmer. Then he pointed to a small group of stars that didn't immediately stand out, unremarkable, almost lost among brighter lights. "They call it the silent heart," he said. "It's not an official name. Just one travelers have given it." Klein slightly furrowed his brow. "Why?" Leonard took a deep breath. "Because they say that this constellation only becomes visible when you stop. When you don't search, don't run, don't flee." His voice grew softer. "I saw it the first time when I was alone. Really alone. I thought I had lost everything that had held me," Klein said nothing. He moved only a tiny step closer, enough that Leonard could feel the warmth. "Since then," Leonard continued, "I look for it when I wonder if I still belong anywhere." A moment of silence followed. The sky seemed to grow wider, deeper. Klein slowly raised his gaze and followed the lines that Leonard had described. "I see it," he said quietly. "It's... quiet," Leonard nodded. "Yes," Klein hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I think I never learned to be quiet. As a conductor...you're always on the go. Always responsible. Always vigilant," he lowered his gaze. "But here...with you...even standing feels like arriving." Leonard looked at him, not surprised, not amused. But deeply moved. "Maybe," he said softly, "we're both wanderers. Just in different ways," the wind freshened slightly. Instinctively, Leonard put a hand on Klein's coat, held him there firmly, not possessively, just protectively. Klein let it happen without thinking. Their foreheads were now closer than they had ever been before. Not quite touching. But close enough that every breath seemed shared. "Thank you," whispered Leonard, barely audible, "for listening to me." Klein smiled softly. "Thank you for trusting me with it." Above them, the silent heart continued to sparkle, unnoticed by the world, but seen by two people who for a moment needed nothing but this sky, this train, and each other. "Leonard, sometimes I think the word poet doesn't quite fit you," he replied to the other, looking up at the sky. Then he raised his hand and pointed up to the sky. Up there, a star shone brightly. Leonard followed his gaze and then tilted his head. "Yes? What do you mean by that?" the poet asked. "The star, the constellation... it looks like a poet... that's why I think the star suits you. The Star Poet...", he replied to Leonard, and Leonard's green eyes sparkled briefly as he looked down. "Like the 17th tarot card?" the poet asked, and the conductor nodded. "Exactly, the Star Card. It fits you, your poetic nature, and your green galactic eyes like a tannenbaum," he replied to the other, then looked back at the snow-covered landscape. "Oh, they flatter me," he replied, then nudged the other gently in the side. Klein didn't react, just nodded. He set his cup down, and then the conductor lay down on the floor and looked up at the sky. Leonard looked at Klein, then just thought about it and lay down next to the other. The two of them looked up at the sky in silence, letting themselves be swept away by the stars and enchanted by the snow.

Chapter Text

Morning came more quietly than usual. No sudden jolting, no hasty murmur of voices in the corridors, only the muffled rumble of the Winter Express over snow-covered rails and the deep, quiet breathing of the train itself. The light outside was milky, filtered through fine paper, and made the windows glow in a soft gray. Klein was already on his way. His steps were routine, but not hurried. He wore his uniform neatly buttoned, his coat draped over his arm, as it was pleasantly warm inside. In his hand, he held a small list - nothing special, just a few things that needed to be checked before the train reached its next stop. As he walked down the narrow aisle between two cars, he heard a voice. A voice he had come to recognize. "And so he wrote that even winter does not last forever, as long as someone has the courage to stand up to it with words...", Leonard. Klein involuntarily slowed his pace. The poet's voice echoed slightly between the walls, carried by enthusiasm, by that inner fire that always seized him when he spoke of stories. Leonard stood a few meters away, near a compartment door, notebook in hand, gazing into space, as if he wasn't looking at the train but the world he was describing. "…and that's exactly why," Leonard continued, a bit louder than perhaps necessary, "winter is not just cold. It's a test. And every test-" "Excuse me." The voice was sharp, unfriendly. Klein stopped. A middle-aged man had pushed his way out of a compartment. He was finely dressed, his coat neat, his gaze cool. He eyed Leonard with visible disapproval. "Do you have to do this here?" he asked, without lowering his voice. "Some of us are trying to read. Or sleep," Leonard blinked, for a moment he seemed out of rhythm, as if someone were pulling him out of a dream. His voice immediately lowered. "Excuse me. I... I didn't notice that I-" "That's noticeable," the man interrupted. "This isn't a theater. And to be honest... Poems don't interest everyone." An uncomfortable silence fell over the corridor. Leonard's shoulders tensed slightly. He closed the notebook, held it a moment too tightly, as if necessary. His gaze drifted to the side and met Klein. Klein stepped forward now, calmly, decisively. "Excuse me," he said, with the polite clarity of a conductor who knows his job. "The Lord didn't intentionally disturb anyone," the man turned to him. "And who are you?" "Klein Moretti," he replied without hesitation. "Conductor of this train." His tone was friendly but firm enough to not allow any objection. The hallway is a public area. As long as rest periods are not disregarded, passengers are allowed to stay and talk here," he looked briefly at Leonard, only for a heartbeat, then back at the man. "If it bothers you, I can offer you a quieter seat in the lounge car," the man said, his mouth twisting, as he looked at Klein, then Leonard, as if he wanted to say something but decided against it. "That's enough," he muttered finally and retreated to his compartment. The door closed with a soft click. The gang breathed again before Leonard slowly let his shoulders drop. "I...thank you," he said quietly and looked at Klein. "I sometimes forget how loud I get." Klein smiled softly. "I know. And to be honest...", he nodded slightly toward the notebook. "It didn't sound like you were supposed to be interrupted." Leonard's lips twitched. A warm, soft smile. "Then maybe," he said calmly, "I can tell you the rest later." Klein nodded. "That would make me happy." And as the train continued gliding through the winter, something remained between them-invisible, but palpable. A silent understanding. A protection, a closeness that didn't need words.

.+(´^ω^`)+.

A little later, Leonard was walking alone in the hallway. He had his notebook with him and was just walking into the lounge. He wanted to look for the conductor. However, he didn't find it that quickly, strangely enough. Therefore, he continued to look around. The snow outside flew in wild movements to form arcs and covered the world a bit more with a soft blanket of snow. Leonard's pine-green gaze drifted through the lounge. He saw Old Neil, who was sitting by the fireplace with a few children and reading to them, Mr. Mitchell, who had just had this performance recently, and several other passengers he had seen multiple times this week. "So obvious?" Leonard asked with a weak smile. Audrey didn't sit down right away. She looked at him for a moment, then at the empty seat next to him. "Only if you've learned how to read people." "Then you've clearly had more practice than I have," she said with a soft chuckle and finally sat down next to him, leaving a respectful distance between them. She put the blanket over her knees. "Klein is taking a break," she said calmly. "He went toward the back of the car a while ago." Leonard nodded slowly. "I figured that." "Disappointed?" he thought for a moment. "No. Just... unaccustomed," Audrey opened the card case, not dramatically, not solemnly. More like she was pulling out something familiar. She pulled out a single card and held it between two fingers. "May I?" Leonard pointed to the small table in front of the bank. "Please," she laid the card down and turned it over. It was the Justice card, before she added her Zigticket with the I between several letters. Leonard's gaze remained on it. "That's...your ticket." "Yes," Audrey said. "And yours is Star, isn't it?" he smiled crookedly. "They gave me the ticket without explaining why." "They usually do," she replied softly. "Words work better when you give them space." Leonard leaned back a bit. "And what does Justice say about me?" Audrey didn't look at him right away. She looked at the card as if she were looking at an old friend. "That you are someone who listens. Even when it's uncomfortable. That you don't judge but want to understand." Leonard blinked. "That's the advantage of cards," Leonard chuckled softly. "Then I hope Star doesn't blind me too much." "Don't worry," she said warmly. "Some stars shine only for those who look closely," at this moment the train vibrated slightly, a quiet, familiar rumble. Leonard leaned back, more relaxed than before. Perhaps waiting wasn't still after all. Perhaps it was exactly the space that things needed to unfold. Leonard's green gaze drifted back to the clock and then away again, he apologized to Audrey and stood up. He made his way to the staff compartment to meet Klein...Perhaps waiting wasn't still after all. Perhaps it was exactly the space that things needed to unfold. Leonard glanced at the wall clock one last time, then carefully closed the card case and nodded gratefully to Audrey. "Thank you for the conversation," he said quietly. "It was... unexpectedly pleasant," Audrey smiled softly. "The Winter Express has a knack for it," Leonard returned the smile, then stood up and left the lounge. The walk was quieter than before, muffled by the soft light of the lamps and the steady clatter of the rails. His footsteps sounded quiet on the carpet as the night enveloped the train like a protective blanket outside. The personnel department was a bit off to the side, behind a narrow door that hardly anyone used except the employees. Leonard didn't knock right away. He hesitated for a moment, heard the soft clinking of metal, the rustling of fabric, then he knocked. "One moment," Klein's voice came from inside, slightly muffled. The door opened shortly thereafter. Klein stood in the doorway, his uniform jacket already off, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he had just run through it, and there was a hint of soot on his nose - probably from the fireplace or the locomotive. "Leonard," he said, surprised, then he smiled. Not on duty. Just... honest. "Come in," the staff room was small, functional, but surprisingly tidy. A narrow bed, a small dresser, a table with an old lamp. On the wall hung a peg rail with spare uniform, scarf, and gloves. On the table lay a neatly folded notepad, a pocket watch, and a small, worn book with gold lettering on the spine. Leonard paused for a moment, letting his gaze wander. "It's... quieter here," he said finally. Klein closed the door behind him. "That's the point," he replied quietly. "Just...stories. Things that were read to me when I was younger." "Earlier," Leonard repeated softly. Klein sat on the edge of the bed. "I didn't remember much from that time. But this...this reminds me that it was once quiet." Leonard sat down across from him, leaning forward slightly. "Your life doesn't sound as quiet as you need it to be," Klein snorted softly. "That's true," a smile flickered across Leonard's face, then his expression softened. "This morning," he began cautiously, "when you read my poem...the one about winter and the step that changes the morning?" Klein looked up. "The one about winter and the step that changes the morning?" Leonard nodded. "You didn't say anything. But...you stayed." Klein lowered his gaze to his hands. "I didn't want to disturb you. But...it touched me," he breathed deeply. "It was as if you had said something that I couldn't put into words myself," Leonard's voice grew softer. "Sometimes I write exactly for that reason," a warm look met Klein's face. "And sometimes," Leonard added, "you write about someone without realizing it." Klein felt his heart beat restlessly. "Leonard...," the poet stood up slowly and stepped closer. Not too close. Just close enough that the silence between them was no longer empty. "I wanted to see you tonight," Leonard said honestly. "Not as a conductor. But as you." Klein smiled, a little tired, but sincere. "Then...you're in the right place." For a moment, they said nothing.

Chapter Text

The night had a firm grip on the winter express. Outside, the landscape passed by as a dark silhouette, interrupted by silvery moonlight breaking on the snow fields. The sky was clear, but the cold that accompanied it was of that quiet, penetrating kind that didn't knock loudly but slipped unnoticed into every crevice. It began almost unobtrusively, before a soft crackling was heard in the walls. A cracking sound like the one you hear when ice breaks on a lake. A barely noticeable tremor beneath the feet. Then a hint of frost that swept through the train's corridors like a breath. Klein was just walking through the middle car, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, his gaze habitually attentive. But as he passed by a window, he involuntarily stopped. A fine veil of ice had formed on the inside of the glass, not much, just enough to dull the light of the lamps, he frowned. "That shouldn't be...", he muttered softly, placing his hand on the wall. She was colder than she had been an hour ago. Another draft of air swept through the hallway. Colder this time, sharper, he crawled under the fabric of his uniform, biting his skin and making Klein involuntarily raise his shoulders. He took a deep breath, not wanting to show that he was shivering. This was no place for uncertainty. But his breath was already forming a fine mist in front of his mouth. The wave of cold continued through the train like a silent wave, through the compartments, through the lounge area, until even the lamps seemed a bit dimmer. Somewhere a cup clinked, someone pulled a blanket tighter around their shoulders. Klein felt his fingers slowly stiffen. He rubbed them briefly against each other, an automatic reflex, and kept going. The heating would surely kick in again. A brief outage, nothing more. Still, this cold felt...different. Deeper. As if it touched not only the body, but also the mind. The train rumbled on through the night, a steady, soothing rhythm, as if it held them both in its own breath. The hallway lights flickered briefly, steadied, and bathed everything in soft, amber light. Outside, the darkness glided by, punctuated by the glint of frozen fields and icy trees that seemed glassy in the moonlight. Leonard hardly moved. He stood quietly beside Klein, giving him space, not pressing in, and yet his presence was clear, warm, constant. Klein only now realized how tense he had been. The shoulders that barely lowered otherwise. The breath, which always remained controlled. However, under the blanket, he let her slowly sink. A soft sigh escaped him, barely audible. Leonard heard it anyway. "Better?", he asked softly. Klein nodded. "Yes. A lot.", he hesitated, then added: "Thank you.", Leonard smiled, more with his eyes than his mouth. "Gladly.", they sat down next to each other on one of the padded benches in the lounge, the blanket still wrapped around both of them. Klein felt the warmth through the fabric, felt Leonard's arm lightly on his, just a touch on the edge, just enough to know he was there. For a while, they said nothing. The fire in the fireplace crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Somewhere in the back, a child was sleeping, head resting on its mother's shoulder. Susie lay curled up on a rug, breathing softly in time with the train. "You know," Leonard finally began, his voice muffled, almost like a poem that didn't want to be written down, "cold has something honest about it." Klein looked at him from the side. "How so?" Leonard answered calmly. "It shows what's missing," he said. "And what you need to stay." Klein thought about it. Then he smiled softly. "In this case...probably a blanket." Leonard laughed softly, a warm sound. "And company." Another silent moment followed. Leonard pulled the blanket a little tighter around them both, unnoticed, as the train jolted again. Klein leaned in almost unconsciously, his head just a hair's breadth from Leonard's shoulder, and stayed that way. "You've been out a lot today," Leonard said after a while. "On the engine, in the storm, now in the cold." "That's part of it," Klein replied automatically, then he stopped. "But...it's nice not to have to do it right now," Leonard nodded slowly. "I thought so." His hand rested lightly on the blanket, near Klein's. Not searching. Not demanding. Just there. Klein looked at her for a moment, then he let his own hand sink a little closer until their fingers almost touched. Almost. The warmth between them was quiet, unobtrusive, but deep. No big event. No dramatic moment. Just two people sharing a quiet place in the midst of winter, cold, and movement. The winter express continued on its way. And while outside the cold had the world firmly in its grip, here, under a single blanket, it slowly got warmer than anywhere else. Klein looked at her for a moment, then he let his own hand sink a little closer until their fingers almost touched. Almost. The warmth between them was quiet, unobtrusive, but deep. No big event. No dramatic moment. Just two people sharing a quiet place in the midst of winter, cold, and movement. The winter express continued on its way. And while outside the cold had the world firmly in its grip, here, under a single blanket, it slowly got warmer than anywhere else.

ﾐ☆( *uωu人)+ﾟ.

Klein realized that he hadn't even touched his pocket watch today.
That was new, almost unsettling, and yet... it felt good. The fire crackled, and Klein yawned slightly. He was a bit sleepy, but he could use this kind of evening sometimes. The silence, the warmth, and the snow outside dusting the world. Leonard himself was writing something in his notebook on the side. There weren't many passengers in the lounge. Only a mother with her daughter, Old Neil reading a story to three children, and Kenley. The cars would move occasionally as they drove over uneven surfaces, before the everyday sound of the tracks was heard again. The ice crystals on the window formed their own landscape, completely separate from the snowy world. A few of the stars shone through the clouds, while the moon hung in the sky. The feather from Leonard scratched on the paper, the fire crackled, the woman's knitting needles clicked every now and then as they met. The pages of Old Neil's book turned on their own, and just as Leonard looked out into the snowy landscape, he felt something on his shoulder. His green gaze drifted to his shoulder and he was shown the warmest face in the world. Klein had fallen asleep and was now using Leonard's shoulder as a pillow. The man was slumped there, his hands slipping slightly from their position. The poet put his notebook aside before gently and carefully reaching for Klein's hands under the blanket. He tried to warm them up a bit. Klein himself didn't notice anything. Well, the man was very exhausted from today's workday. Leonard let the man sleep. Klein had earned a good night's sleep and Leonard didn't really mind. Suddenly, Susie ran around and happily sniffed at Leonard before running to Old Neil and the children. The owner then turned the corner with a tray of cups containing punch. "Something for the soul," she replied softly before distributing the cups. Leonard took his and Klein's and put them down. Leonard warmed up the cup slightly himself before drinking some of it. Audrey went over to the piano after she had distributed everything. Then the woman began to sing a Christmas song. Soft tones filled the room, and the warmth brought the conductor and poet closer together. Audrey's game was calm, almost floating. The melody lay over the room like a thin veil, not to demand attention, but to let it go. The sounds didn't clash, they flowed, disappeared between the warmth of the fireplace and the gentle rocking of the train. Leonard held the cup in both hands for a while without drinking any more. The punch cooled slowly, but the warmth remained—not just in the ceramic, but under the blanket, nearby, in the steady breath on his shoulder. Klein hardly stirred. Only a soft, barely audible exhalation betrayed that he was slipping deeper into sleep. His weight shifted slightly, as if he instinctively sought a safe point, and found it where Leonard stood still and did not withdraw. Leonard lowered his gaze. The calm in Klein's face was unadulterated, free of duty and attention. No conductor, no responsible person, just a man who let himself be carried for a moment. Leonard pulled the blanket up a bit more, just enough to keep the cold out without waking him. The Winter Express continued on through the night. The stars blurred behind thin clouds, then reappeared as if the sky itself was slowly breathing. Snow settled on already fallen snow, layer by layer, silently. Inside the lounge, the small group sat together, each occupied in their own way, yet connected by the same silence. Old Neils voice had grown softer, almost a mere murmur. The children leaned against each other, tired from listening. The mother absent-mindedly stroked her daughter's hair. Kenley gazed out the window, counting not places, but moments. Leonard closed his eyes for a moment. Not to sleep, but to capture this state. The warmth. The closeness. The peace that couldn't be explained and didn't need to be. The train continued on its way. And for this quiet part of the night, it seemed as though he was carrying nothing but peace.

Chapter Text

The Winter Express slowed down long before anyone could see the station. It was no sudden braking, no jerk – rather a conscious reduction in speed, as if the train itself was hesitating. The steady rattling of the wheels on the tracks grew deeper, more stretched, and lost its familiar tempo. A few of the passengers raised their heads as if they had not heard the change, but felt it. Klein stood in the corridor of the sleeping car, holding onto one of the brass poles. His gaze automatically drifted to the pocket watch he was now wearing again. The hands moved quietly, unwavering, and yet time felt different than it had in the morning, heavier, if not more significant. A landscape passed by the windows, which seemed quieter than anything before. No more open markets, no more string lights, no more children playing. Instead, tall, snow-laden firs, whose branches bent under the weight, and behind them rocks, dark and jagged, like sleeping giants. The snow was deeper and untouched here, as if this place had decided not to share the winter. The speakers crackled softly before Klein's own voice filled the car, clear, calm, practiced. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching our next stop, Winterbrook. This is the last stop before our final destination. The Winter Express will be stopping here for a short time," he paused. Not because it was required, but because something inside him demanded it. "Please note that this station is more remote than the previous ones. Keep warm and don't stray too far from the train," as the announcement ended, a tense silence remained. No murmurs, no immediate standing up. It was as if the words needed to sink in. Leonard stood at the lounge window, loosely clutching his notebook under his arm. His gaze followed the tracks, which now ran through high snowbanks. The wind outside was quieter than before, almost reverent, and yet there was something unsettling in the air, an expectation that couldn't be grasped. The train finally came to a stop. Steam hissed from the locomotive and mixed with the cold morning light. The station itself was small, barely more than a covered platform, an old wooden building with iced-over windows and a single lantern whose light had not gone out despite the day. The station's name was on a sign, half covered in snow. The letters looked old, almost forgotten. Klein stepped out onto the platform, his breath forming small clouds in the air. The snow crunched beneath his boots, louder than expected. He had the strange feeling that this place was not just a geographical point, but a threshold. Another door opened behind him. Leonard stepped beside him, pulled the coat tighter around him, and let his gaze silently scan the surroundings. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The wind played with the hem of Leonard's scarf as the train behind them worked quietly, as if holding itself together. You wouldn't stay here for long. They both knew this, and yet this pause felt like a stop before something inevitable, the end of the journey or the beginning of something that had only hinted at itself in glances, gestures, and silent moments so far. A narrow path led down into the valley from the platform. The snow was so soft and untouched that even the wind hardly dared to disturb it. Small lanterns lined the path, each one wrapped in warm glass that cast a soft, golden light on the white blanket. It looked as if someone had taken stars from the sky and carefully scattered them along the path. The village itself was nestled in a valley, protected by gentle hills. The houses were small, built of dark wood, their roofs heavy with snow, thin wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys that immediately dissipated in the cold sky. Each window glowed, not brightly, but dimly, as if the residents were careful not to waste the light. Klein stopped for a moment. From up here, the village looked like a picture in a snow globe. Still. Complete. Cut off from everything that existed outside. There was no noise. No shouts, no wheels turning, no hurried footsteps. Only the distant soft creaking of wood and the gentle trickle of snow falling from the roof edges. Even the Winter Express seemed to breathe more quietly behind them, as if it too had understood that this place required a different kind of peace. A few villagers moved across the square. Their steps were slow, thoughtful. Some carried baskets, others lanterns. They nodded to each other; no more was needed. Here, everyone seemed to know everyone or at least to know that they were part of the same winter. Leonard stepped beside Klein, his gaze drifting over the scene, over the lights, the snow, the silent figures. Something in his eyes changed, softened, almost reverent. As if he feared to break the moment with a word. Between the houses stood a small chapel, its bell almost completely covered in snow. Next to it was a tree, not particularly large, but densely decorated with ribbons and small glass pendants that caught the light from the lanterns and reflected it back in a thousand soft reflections. Every gust of wind made them sound softly, a barely audible ringing, like ice greeting itself. The snow fell differently here. Not stormy, not drifting, but slowly, almost solemnly. Each flake seemed to take its time, as if it had decided to reach exactly this place and no other. Klein pulled the coat tighter around him, not out of cold, but from a feeling that was hard to describe. This village had nothing obtrusive about it. It didn't ask for anything. It just waited, patiently, like winter itself. A place between arrival and departure, and while the winter express rumbled softly behind them, preparing for the final leg, this village seemed like a breath before it. A silent promise. A place that was only visible to those who traveled slowly enough to notice it. The snow continued to settle on roofs, paths, and shoulders. And for a moment, it seemed as though the world was complete here. They hadn't gone far when something broke away from the light of one of the lanterns. At first, it was just a small figure, little more than a shadow in the snow. Then boots appeared, too big for the legs that carried them, and a thick coat whose sleeves towered over the hands. A child stood there, cheeks red from the cold, nose slightly flushed, holding a small lantern that seemed almost larger than the child itself. It looked openly at Klein and Leonard, without fear, with the kind of curiosity that only children possess, then smiled. "You came on the Winter Express, right?" The voice was bright, clear, and so matter-of-fact that there was no doubt about it. Klein nodded slowly. The child stepped closer, the snow crunching beneath its feet. "The train doesn't stop here often," it continued, proud, as if sharing a secret. "Only when winter is really deep." Leonard's gaze drifted to Klein, a slight smile in his eyes, then he crouched down slightly to be eye-to-eye. The child waved the lantern a bit as if it had been waiting exactly for this moment to be taken seriously. "Then you're lucky," it said solemnly. "Tonight is the Christmas market." Klein blinked in surprise. The idea fit so well into this village that it still caught him unexpectedly. "A Christmas market?" the child nodded eagerly, the hat almost slipping over its eyes. "On the square by the chapel. There's warm apple punch and honey cookies. And lights. So many lights," it made a sweeping motion with its free hand as if it could hardly grasp the number of lights. "My grandma says the lights are there so winter won't forget the way," Leonard paused. Something about these words seemed to touch him, and he smiled softly. "And when does it start?" he asked calmly. "When it's really dark," the child replied. "When the snow turns blue," he pointed with the lantern towards the sky, where the light was already beginning to change, where the evening was slowly covering the village like a second, darker blanket. Klein felt a gentle warmth in his chest. He looked out over the square, imagining the stalls being set up, the voices and laughter filling the quiet space without destroying it. "Are you coming?" the child asked suddenly, almost hopefully. Leonard didn't answer right away. He looked over at Klein, giving him space as if this decision wasn't something you just made. Klein finally nodded, a small, honest nod. "If we're allowed to." the child grinned broadly. "Of course you are! The market is for everyone who arrives here." it was already halfway around, the lantern swayed slightly. "I have to help now. But you'll find your way. You hear it before you see it," and with these words, he ran off, almost merging with the light and the snow, until only the small lantern trailed through the village like a wandering star. Klein and Leonard were left behind, the snow fell on, silently, patiently. And somewhere in the distance, barely audible, was the promise of warm light, soft voices, and an evening that might hold more than just a market.

ヾ(*′○`)ﾟ.+:｡ﾟ☆

The Christmas market didn't reveal itself to them all at once. He slowly emerged from the darkness, as if someone had taken the stars from the sky and placed them between the houses. Small light chains spanned the square, lanterns cast golden circles in the snow, and between the stalls, warm steam rose, smelling of cinnamon, apple, and roasted nuts. Voices mingled quietly, no loud bustle, but a quiet, heartfelt murmur, as if the market itself was careful not to disturb the winter. Klein stopped for a moment, automatically. Leonard noticed it right away and slowed his pace without saying anything. They stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, watching as children laughed, adults passed cups to one another, and an old woman lit candles while humming softly. Then, almost casually, they ran into the two of them. It was not a collision, rather a gentle passing by, which made it stop. A woman with dark hair that was visible under a knitted cap was holding two cups in her hands and was trying not to lose either of them in the snow. A man stood next to her with a long scarf that hung crookedly around his neck, as if he had put it on in a hurry. He was laughing softly at something she had said. "Oh, sorry," the woman said immediately and smiled embarrassed. "Everything's fine," Klein replied reflexively, with the tone of a person who was used to conveying calm. Leonard nodded kindly. "The market pulls you a bit...aside," the woman laughed softly. "That's right. I'm Daly," she said, pointing with her head at the man next to her. "And this is Dunn." "Smith," he added with a warm grin. "Dunn Smith," it was one of those conversations that didn't need a reason. No why. No origin. They just stood there, four people in the snow, connected by warm breath and flickering light. "Are you from around here?" Daly asked curiously. Klein shook his head. "We're on the Winter Express." On hearing these words, something changed. Not much, just a brief pause. "The Winter Express?" Dunn raised his eyebrows slightly. "The one that only runs in the dead of winter?" Leonard nodded. "Exactly that one." Daly looked around, as if she needed to make sure this place really existed. "Then...maybe that's a sign," she muttered more to herself than to the others. Klein furrowed her brow slightly, but Leonard looked at her intently. "A sign of what?" Dunn exchanged a glance with Daly, that quiet, wordless exchange that people have when they know each other well. "We actually wanted to go on. To the final stop. But...we didn't know if the train really stopped there," Leonard smiled. Not knowing. Not explaining. Just open. "It does," the market around them seemed to fall silent for a moment, as if it had heard and approved of this sentence. A snowflake got stuck on Daly's eyelash, she blinked in surprise and then laughed. "Then we'll probably get on," she finally said. They stayed together for a while, drinking punch, sharing pastries, listening to a violin playing somewhere. It was nothing big, nothing significant, and that's why it felt so right. When the station bell sounded softly through the evening and gave the signal to return, they went back together. Four tracks in the snow that lay side by side. Later, when the Winter Express pulled back into service, Daly and Dunn were seated not far away. Their hands touched unconsciously as the train smoothly pulled away. They looked out the window as if they had just begun to understand something they had been searching for for a long time. Klein stood in the hallway, checking everything one more time, as he always did. Leonard leaned nearby, watching him with that calm, attentive gaze. And somewhere between frost, light, and movement, it became clear: Some people don't get on the same train by accident. Sometimes they travel together at the right time. The Winter Express had long since left the station behind when the rhythm of the rails returned to the familiar, soothing clickety-clack. The village slowly sank behind them, its lights growing smaller until they looked like scattered stars in the snow. Klein went through the car one last time, checking the doors, windows, and lamps. It was routine, and yet everything felt different. Maybe because he knew this was one of the last stages. Maybe because Leonard was not far away. When Klein returned to the lounge, he saw him right away. Leonard was sitting on the long corner bench, his coat half open, the notebook closed on his lap this time. Daly and Dunn had settled opposite, both with cups in their hands. "You're not writing today?" Daly asked curiously as Klein approached. Leonard smiled slightly. "Not everything needs to be recorded right away." Dunn nodded in agreement. "Some things change when you write them down too soon," Klein stood next to Leonard, leaning casually against the edge of the table. "That's what someone who looks like they're collecting thoughts like other souvenirs would say," Leonard looked up at him, a wry glint in his green eyes. "And you look like someone who needs to keep everything in sight, even when they should be resting," Daly observed them both with a soft, barely perceptible smile. "You haven't known each other long, have you?" Klein opened his mouth, but Leonard was faster. "No." "But it feels that way," Dunn added calmly. For a moment, something unspoken hung in the air. No embarrassment, more a silent understanding. Klein felt his shoulders relax as Leonard stepped aside, without looking, just to make room. Klein sat down. Their knees touched lightly. Not enough to be noticeable. Enough to be noticed. "The Winter Express has this effect," Leonard said finally. "It brings people together who might have otherwise missed each other." Daly pulled her cup closer. "I think," she said slowly, "that some paths only become visible in the winter." Dunn unconsciously placed his hand over hers. Klein noticed it—this small, self-evident gesture—and something gently contracted in his chest. Leonard seemed to see it too. His gaze briefly glided to Klein's hand, which lay loosely on his own knee, then back up. "So you're getting off at the last stop?" Klein asked. "Yes," Dunn replied. "We actually wanted to get off earlier...but now it feels right to keep going." Leonard nodded, as if he had expected exactly that. "The final stop isn't a place," he said quietly. "More a moment." Daly looked at him in surprise. "You sound like you've been there before." Leonard smiled. "Maybe." The train jolted gently as it turned a curve. Outside, the snowy landscape passed by quietly. Inside, it was warm, quiet, almost timeless. Klein noticed how Leonard's shoulder leaned slightly against his. Not a conscious leaning. Just a closeness that had occurred. And as Daly and Dunn spoke quietly to each other while the train carried them further, Klein knew with a clarity that surprised him: Some encounters were like the Winter Express itself. You boarded without knowing how much they would change you, and you only noticed it when you were well on your way.