On certain nights, when the air smelled of baking and rain, Paksimga would sit by the well and hum the train’s breath into the water. The well listened and offered back a reflection that was not who she had been but who she had decided to be. In the ripple, she saw a city skyline and a ribbon of blue postcard river and the face of a boy who sold shadows. She saw the village leaning in, eyes bright as the brass button. She whispered, “Keep the doors open,” and the doors did—always enough for departures, always enough for returns.