The hours between places.

The coast has disappeared. The next one has not arrived. A light hums overhead. A bag occupies the seat beside us. Beyond the window, the sea is the same colour as the hour.

There is a kind of belonging in transit. No room to leave tidy, no door to open. Just the familiar things we brought, and the slow business of watching the world go past.

We keep a record of these hours. Not the destinations, but the intervals: a crease in a shirt, a reflection in dark glass, the light just before morning. Small evidence that we were here, even when here was moving.