Olivia blinked awake, reaching for her backpack, but her hand met only a thick manila envelope. Around her, other travelers—disheveled, groggy—murmured in confusion, clutching similar dossiers. The air was tinged with uncertainty, the train's steady motion now a backdrop to something uncanny.

Mr. Finch, a retired schoolteacher, broke the silence as he peered into his dossier. "This… this can't be right. How do they know about my son in Brighton?" A hush fell as others opened their folders, the rustle of paper loud against the muffled train noises.

"Who did this? Why are our secrets written here—in such detail?" The conductor hesitates, glancing at a dossier left on his own seat. Conductor Leary stammers, "I-I have no idea. I woke up just like you. This is not part of any procedure."

Anna, a young woman with trembling hands, whispers, "Mine knows about the painting I hid after my father died. No one should know that." The group grows restless, some passengers angry, others frightened, as the sense of invasion deepens.

"If someone wanted to hurt us, they'd have used these against us. Maybe… maybe it's a chance to let go." The dossiers become less threatening, more like bridges connecting strangers.

"Perhaps what was meant to divide us has brought us together," Mr. Finch muses, gazing out at the brightening horizon.