"Girl in Orient Express" Winter 1930. The wagon-restaurant of the Orient Express, late afternoon. Snow-covered plains stretch endlessly beyond the frosted windows. At a white-clothed table, two figures face each other. A woman in her early thirties wears a deep burgundy velvet travel suit — impeccably dressed, composed. Across from her, a small, immaculately groomed Belgian gentleman in his fifties, a perfectly waxed moustache, an egg-shaped head, a dark suit with a precise white pocket square. Hercule Poirot. His small grey eyes are attentive, almost uncomfortably so. Between them on the table, two cups of tisane, a brass samovar, and the particular silence of a conversation that has just reached something important. The woman's hands rest on the tablecloth — still, deliberate. Poirot's head tilts slightly to one side. He has noticed something. He always notices. Style, painterly, early BBC Agatha Christie adaptations — muted burgundy and cream, dark mahogany panelling, warm amber lamplight against the cold white light from the windows. 35mm film grain, soft edges. Mood, the precise moment when a polite conversation becomes an interrogation, and both parties know it.