Sure. Here’s a short romance, a little wistful, a little warm—very 1970s Canada. --- The train station in Sudbury smelled like diesel, wet wool, and weak coffee. Margaret Bell stood on the platform in a camel-coloured coat that had belonged to her mother, gripping a cardboard suitcase that was already soft at the corners. It was October 1974, and the leaves had turned the colour of rusted pennies. She was twenty-six and leaving town. Margaret had told herself she wasn’t running away—just going somewhere else. Toronto, specifically. A clerical job at an insurance firm. A roommate she’d met through a cousin. A life that didn’t revolve around church suppers, pitying looks, and the memory of a man who’d left for Vancouver two winters earlier and never written back. The train was late. It often was. She was staring down the tracks when a voice beside her said, “You look like someone who’s about to change her mind.” She turned. The man was tall, dark-haired, with a scarf knitted in uneven stripes of red and brown. He had paint on his boots and a smile that seemed half apology, half curiosity. “I don’t,” Margaret said, though she wasn’t sure it was true. “Good,” he said. “If you did, you’d be blocking the platform. I’m Daniel.” She hesitated, then shook his hand. “Margaret.” They stood together as the wind worried at her coat. Daniel told her he was heading north—farther than Sudbury—to work on a mural project in a community centre near Timmins. The government had grants for things Mehr sehen