One

Penn Station would make more sense. Their trains pull into the same building. But it's finally autumn in New York. They want the romance of it more than the convenience. And so they're about to meet at Grand Central Terminal.

It's the first time they're meeting. She insists it isn't a date. Yet they've agreed to match in gray — a color indecisive in itself.

He arrives thirty minutes early and waits in the middle of the concourse, submerged in the warm daylight spilling across the marble. Above him looms the celestial ceiling, its gold-leaf stars reversed like a reflection on water.

Alongside him stands the four-faced opal clock. Its brass exoskeleton blooms as if it were sentient, watching over the travels of many. It looks back at him, showing its hands, a reminder that she'll be here soon.

He finds solace in the bustling room. The echoes of the crowd become a unified voice, and the clattering of luggage wheels gives it rhythm. It's enough for him to set his nerves aside and focus on his eagerness instead.