Tonight, you step through the blue portal and onto the most famous train in history — the Simplon Orient Express, crossing Europe on a late-autumn night in 1924. Your sleeping compartment is mahogany and white linen, lit by a single amber lamp, and the floor sways gently beneath your feet as forty-one years of journeys press silently against every window on the train. Because the glass remembers. Every landscape it has ever passed through, every face that has ever been reflected in it — layered one on top of the other like pressed flowers in a book of glass. Your companion tonight is Émile, a sleeping car attendant who has worked this route for thirty-one years, and whose father Henri was one of the original conductors from the very first Orient Express journey in 1883. Henri died on this train in 1912, and Émile believes his reflection is still in the corridor glass — thirty years deep, on the stretch above the Adriatic coast where Henri always stood watching the moonlight on the water. Tonight, a late-autumn fog has slowed the train to a crawl, and the rocking is gentler than it has ever been. If you can match your breathing to the rhythm of the rails, let your eyelids grow heavy, and watch the glass instead of looking through it, you might help Émile find the one reflection he has been searching for across twelve years of crossings. A story about brass polish and pocket watches, about fathers and sons separated by time but held together by glass, and about the quiet truth that every window you have ever looked through still holds your face.