Chapter 3 Off the Tracks

CLAUDIA

The platform at Chamartín Station is wrapped in a gray mist that seems to swallow the noses of the trains. The Madrid air is biting this early in the morning—so cold that my breath forms white clouds that dissipate the moment they leave my lips.

Javi dropped me off with a quick kiss on the cheek and a to-go coffee that’s already cooling in my hands.

I should be mentally reviewing my notes for the Salamanca conference, or perhaps thinking about how sweet Javi was to wake up early just to bring me here, but my eyes insist on scanning the tide of dark coats crowding platform four.

I’m looking for her.

"Your scarf is knotted incorrectly. You’ll catch a cold before you even reach Castile."

The voice—low, firm, and perfectly modulated—comes from behind me.

I spin around. Mercedes stands a few feet away, impeccable as always.

She wears a black wool coat with a military cut that only emphasizes her sharp silhouette, dark leather gloves, and her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it seems to defy gravity.

Her gray gaze settles on my neck with a focus that makes my skin tingle.

"Dr. Almeda! Good morning," I say, beaming at her, feeling a sudden heat that has nothing to do with the coffee. "I didn't see you there. I was... distracted."

"Obviously," she replies, taking a step forward.

Her gloved fingers reach out, and with a swiftness that leaves me paralyzed, she grabs the loose end of my green wool scarf and winds it snugly around my neck.

The brush of her leather gloves against my chin is barely a whisper, yet it carries her scent: orange blossom, clean and cold.

"A distracted philosopher is a danger to herself, Claudia. Keep your eyes open. Always."

"I do keep them open, Dr.," I reply softly, adjusting the scarf. "It’s just that sometimes, I look at different things."

Mercedes narrows her eyes. An unreadable shadow flickers in her pupils, and she pulls her hands back as if the wool burned her.

"Let’s board," she says, turning away with a sharp swirl of her coat. "First class is in car three. Standing here in the draft is unwise."

MERCEDES

I spotted her the moment she cleared the turnstiles.

It’s impossible to miss her. She carries that noisy, messy, light-filled youth that seems to repel the Madrid mist. She’s wearing that hideous green scarf her boyfriend—the boy in the gray sweatshirt whose file I ended up accidentally memorizing—likely gave her.

It’s knotted poorly, exposing the pale curve of her neck to the sierra wind.

I had to restrain myself from walking faster. I had to remind myself, step by step, who I am: Professor of Philosophy at the University of San Griselmo. Forty years old. Respected. Devout.

And yet, when I was close enough, my hands acted before my reason. I fixed her scarf. I felt the heat radiating from her skin, the pulse thrumming beneath her ear, and for one wild second, I wanted to slide my bare fingers along that perfect line.

Lord, turn these thoughts from me. Purify my mind.

My mental Hail Mary cuts off as we step into the first-class car.

The aisle is narrow, lined with dark wood panels that muffle the noise outside.

I locate our compartment, slide the glass door open, and step inside.

The space is intimate, minuscule. Two rows of blue velvet seats face one another, separated by a tiny folding table.

Claudia follows, heaving her small suitcase onto the rack with a touch of clumsiness. As she reaches up, her thin sweater rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin at her hip. I avert my eyes to the window immediately, feeling as though the train’s air conditioning is failing to cool me down.

"It's quite cozy, isn't it?" she says, sitting opposite me with that ease that disarms me. She pulls her leather portfolio out and rests it on the table. "It’s almost like a floating office."

"It is a temporary workspace, Claudia," I clarify, sitting and crossing my legs. I adopt my defensive posture, back rigid. "Let’s make the most of the two-hour ride. Did you bring the corrections I requested?"

"I have them right here." She hands me the papers.

The contact lasts less than a second, but I feel an electric shock race up my arm.

She, however, remains smiling with that infuriating innocence.

"I’ve been turning over what you said about 'ordering impulses through reason.

' I think I understand your point, but I still find a contradiction in the classical text. "

"What contradiction?" I ask, forcing myself to look at the paper rather than her lips.

"The author says morality is a straight path, like these tracks.

" She gestures to the window, through which the train is slowly gliding out of the station.

"But he also acknowledges that the human soul has inevitable detours.

If the detour is inevitable... why are we so insistent on calling it a mistake?

Perhaps the detour is the very path the soul needs to walk in order to know itself. "

I feel the temperature in the compartment spike. I stare at her, searching for a sign that she knows what she’s doing—that she’s deliberately provoking me. But her eyes... my God, her eyes are clear. To her, this is a purely academic discussion. A brilliant student challenging her mentor.

And that makes it infinitely more dangerous.

CLAUDIA

Mercedes has fallen silent, observing me with an intensity that steals my breath.

Her gray eyes, usually so cold and analytical, shine today with a warm, almost feverish light.

Sometimes I feel like my questions annoy her, but then she looks at me like this—as if she’s reading the pages of my mind one by one—and my chest thrums with a heartbeat I blame on the caffeine and the nerves of being with her.

"A detour, Claudia," Mercedes begins, her voice grave, almost a warning, "is only romantic until the train leaves the tracks.

After that, there is only catastrophe. Derailment.

What you call the 'true path' is nothing more than the weakness of the will surrendering to the easy way.

Virtue is staying the course, despite the force of the wind. "

"And if the wind is too strong?" I ask, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table.

The distance between us closes to barely a foot.

I can see the perfect texture of her skin, the tension in the corners of her deep burgundy lips.

"And if resisting the wind only succeeds in breaking the tree? Maybe it’s wiser to bend a little. To yield."

Mercedes swallows hard. I watch her throat move, right above the gold crucifix resting on her black sweater.

"To yield is the beginning of the end," she whispers. Her voice has lost its academic firmness. It’s almost a plea. "If you yield once, the structure weakens. Order crumbles. And after order... there is only the abyss."

"I don't know, Dr..." I smile slightly, trying to lighten the debate. "Sometimes I feel like you're too afraid of chaos. Javi always says I'm too rigid, but I think next to you, I'm a complete anarchist."

The moment I mention Javi, something shifts. Mercedes’s expression hardens instantly, as if a steel curtain has slammed down between us.

"Your boyfriend," she says, with a frigidity that freezes my smile, "should worry more about his own education and leave philosophy to those who actually understand it. Do not mix vulgar opinions with academic debate, Claudia."

I blink, taken aback. I don't understand why she’s suddenly so defensive.

"I... I'm sorry. It was just an offhand comment. He only tries to support me. I talk to him so much about you and your classes that—"

"I am not interested in what you discuss outside the classroom," she cuts me off with a bluntness that stings.

Just then, the train hits a sharp curve at high speed. The train car lurches violently to the left. I lose my balance and slide forward in my seat. Instinctively, I reach out to steady myself.

My right hand lands directly on Mercedes’s thigh.

MERCEDES

The train tilts, and suddenly, gravity strips away the last shred of control I possessed.

Claudia’s hand impacts my leg. Her fingers, long and warm, sink slightly into the fabric of my trousers, just above my knee. It is physical, real, firm—no papers or pens between us. A current of liquid fire surges up my thigh, low in my stomach, forcing an involuntary gasp from my throat.

I freeze, eyes wide, locked on her hand against my body.

The compartment seems to have been drained of oxygen.

My pulse hammers against my temples—deafening, rhythmic.

Sin. Danger. Detour. My mind’s alarms scream in the dark, but my muscles refuse to obey.

For three eternal seconds, I do not pull away.

I drink in the pressure of her hand with an intensity that feels like damnation.

"Oh! I am so sorry, Dr.!" Claudia pulls her hand back as if scorched. Her cheeks flare bright red, and she looks at me with a mix of shame and confusion. "The train lurched, and... please, forgive me. It was an accident."

I stand up with such abruptness that the folding table vibrates. My breathing is erratic, shallow. My heart is in my throat, and I feel as though I might faint if I stay in this claustrophobic space with her for another second.

"That... is enough," I manage to say, my voice raspy, barely recognizable as my own. "Stay here. I’m going to the restroom."

"Dr. Almeda, are you alright?" she asks, standing as well. Her face shows such genuine, stupidly innocent concern that I want to scream. "You’re very pale..."

"I said stay there!" I snap at her, completely losing my composure.

I slide the compartment door shut with a sharp thud that reverberates through the car and bolt into the hallway, almost running. My steps are clumsy, thrown off by the train’s swaying. I reach the end of the corridor, push the restroom door open, and lock it behind me.

I lean against the metal sink, staring at my reflection in the trembling mirror. I am ashen. My eyes are dilated with panic. With shaking hands, I turn on the cold water and splash my neck, trying to douse the fire devouring me from within.

"Hail Mary... Hail Mary..." I begin to whisper, but the words of the prayer blur into the memory of the warmth of her hand on my leg. "Forgive me, Lord. Save me. Save me from her."

I reach for my throat, grabbing the gold crucifix and squeezing it in my fist so hard the metal edges bite into my flesh—searching for a physical pain that might rescue me from this delirium.

But for the first time in my life, prayer brings no peace.

It only returns the echo of her voice, reminding me that the train continues to rush inexorably toward Salamanca, and there is no escape from what I carry inside.