Rain lashes against the windows of a bustling train station. He’s standing, slightly apart from the throng of hurried travelers, clutching a worn, leather-bound book. His gaze is fixed on the platform, not searching for a specific train, but seemingly lost in the swirling grey mist and the rhythmic clatter of passing carriages. He’s wearing a faded, olive-green coat, and his hands are tucked deep into his pockets. A single, wilting sunflower lies pressed between the pages of his book, its petals bruised and drooping. He occasionally glances up, a flicker of something unreadable – longing, perhaps, or a quiet sadness – crossing his face before he returns to his silent vigil. The station announcements blur into a meaningless hum around him, as if he exists in a space just slightly removed from the world.