A/N: I am... not sure what I think of this, especially because it was written in a rush and I had no time to think through the idea at all, but I do have a few ideas for where Allan can go from here, which should be fun to explore later.

Prompt: "The policemen doesn't believe a thing I'm saying," she whispered anxiously, "but you do, don't you?"

"I do […] But you see, I can believe a thing without understanding it. It's all a matter of training."

In the wreckage of the train, he found a journal. From there, Allan's life changed, bit by bit.

Being a first responder has its rewards. It also has its hardships— particularly when a job deals with death. They'd been called to the train station in hopes there were some survivors, but there wasn't even one. The bodies themselves were almost unrecognizable.

While picking through the wreckage that would surely take up his dreams that night, after the bodies had been removed, he came upon a notebook with the words Lucy Pevensie written on the front page in neat letters. The edges of it were burnt and several pages were torn out, but on the whole it had been well-protected.

He slipped it into his bag. Surely, the family members would want it back… he'd give it to them when they came to get their loved ones.

That was the worst part of the job: telling someone that their father, brother, mother, or sister was dead. It never left one, seeing the way their eyes suddenly sunk, protested, and then welled up with grief.

Grief was an ache that never left— he would know.

Then, he forgot about the journal.

That night, as he reached his apartment and slung his bag down onto the ground with a heavy sigh, it fell open, revealing the charred pages of the journal.

He hadn't returned it to the family. Hadn't even thought about it again.

He sighed, and picked it up to set on the table. He'd ask the supervisor who the family members were in the morning and he'd return it to them personally. It was better than a package with a sorry excuse for a note of sympathy.

Although, perhaps there was an address somewhere in the journal. He could deliver it before work in the morning.

He flipped through the first few pages, careful not to let the pages crack under his touch.

He stopped as a phrase including the Bible jumped out at him. He was technically a Christian himself, though he hadn't practiced much at all in the past few years. There was another name alongside the word— Aslan.

Aslan?

Vaguely aware he was invading the family's privacy, he skimmed the entire journal entry.

This morning on my walk, I happened to run into a Bobby I'd seen several times before. He was wearing a sharp suit and had a pleasant smile. I liked him. At least, I think I did. He was rather difficult… but I also can't blame him too much.

He asked me why I was out walking so early by myself, and I replied that I enjoyed taking some time to worship on my own before the rest of the family woke up. Curiously, he asked who I meant to worship, and of course I replied, "Aslan." I quickly corrected myself to His name in our world, but the policeman still looked at me very strangely. I don't blame him. I still think of Him as Aslan most of the time, but you know, I don't really think He minds all that much? Still, it of course confuses people in this world.

He began to question me what I meant, and soon enough we were deep into an argument. Or, as Edmund might call it, a spirited discussion. He wasn't a Christian himself, but I don't think he was half so concerned about that difference as the fact that I'd just named a being that doesn't exist here.

After some time, Edmund came along and rescued me from the conversation. He's brilliant at that, you know. Using his words to get what he wants. By that point I was more flustered than anything, and berating myself quite horribly about using Aslan's name instead of Jesus Christ.

Ed was able to calm me down and everything is alright now— but I can't help thinking again and again of the man. I never even learned his name. I wish… I wish I could find him again, and talk to him, and convince him that I'm not mad and that he should read a copy of the Bible. It's every bit as real as this journal is, you know.

But that night when I was telling Peter about it, he said something that started me thinking. He said, "Some people can believe things without having proof or understanding it. Like us— we've never really questioned how we get back and forth from Narnia aside from the fact that Aslan wants us there. But some people aren't so lucky. It's all a matter of training."

That night, rather than dreams of the wrecked train, Allan lay sleepless, wondering who the policeman was and whether he remembered the strange young lady he'd spoken to.

She had been odd, certainly, this Lucy Pevensie… but she also seemed so sincere that he wanted to believe what she'd written. If only he could have met her before she died.