October 13, 1993, on the train from Manchester to London.
Joanne Rowling stared out the window, her tightly furrowed brow reflecting the turmoil in her heart.
She had good reason to frown.
Having just given birth, she was now dealing with the paperwork for her divorce.
It was a sad story, and the problem was that she had few people around her she could confide in.
"May I sit here?"
A man's voice startled Joanne Rowling. She hurriedly wiped away the tears at the corners of her eyes and murmured, "Mm."
Without daring to look up, she saw a pair of legs in suit trousers sit down across from her.
"I think you need this."
As the man spoke, a slender, fair hand appeared in her view.
In it was a handkerchief.
"Oh, thank you."
Rowling took the handkerchief, glanced quickly at the man, and tried to smile.
Her smile was a little awkward, partly because she hadn't collected herself yet, but also because of his appearance.
The handsome, black-haired man wore a slim-cut suit. One look at him was enough to make it hard to tear your eyes away.
"Is something troubling you?" the man asked gently. "Perhaps confiding in a stranger you'll never see again might ease some of the pressure."
"Ah."
Rowling let out a brief cry and lowered her head to dab at the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief.
She hesitated over whether to tell him about her troubles. Then she looked up at the sincere expression on the black-haired man's face, and inexplicably felt a surge of trust.
"Because of my child and my family, sir, life has been even harder than I imagined."
She bravely took the first step, and it turned out to be the right choice.
The man across from