The frantic commotion with the neighbor's runaway cat finally resolved down the northern corridor with a relieved gasp and a soft feline hiss, Ryan offered a tired, polite nod before slipping back through his front door. The quiet of his sixth-floor unit rushed in to fill the silence, smelling faintly of stale rain and his morning green tea. Seeking a moment of normalcy after dodging strata inspectors, lobby freight crates, and unexpected domestic animal pursuits, he reached into the deep pocket of his heavy winter coat to retrieve his keys.
Instead of cold metal, his fingertips brushed against a stiff, unfamiliar piece of card stock. Frowning, Ryan pinched the edge and drew it out into the apartment's muted light. It was an old-fashioned, heavy railway ticket, its magnetic strip dulled and the ink faded with age. A stamped station identifier and route code marked a departure from a regional western line he had never traveled, bearing a date from three years prior—right around the time he first relocated to Sydney. The ticket didn't belong to him, yet it rested in the lining of his coat like a quiet accusation, carrying the unsettling weight of a journey he had never booked.