It’s early. The sky is pale pink. There’s the soft hum of cars on Route 128 a few hundred yards away. You pull off the highway, slip past quiet suburban streets, into the parking garage. The doors slide open automatically. The first light of dawn filters through the garage’s edges, reflecting off glass windows, metal beams. You carry your luggage, maybe a coffee in hand. It’s peaceful—not the rush you expect before a train ride, but calm. It’s early. The sky is pale pink. There’s the soft hum of cars on Route 128 a few hundred yards away. You pull off the highway, slip past quiet suburban streets, into the parking garage. The doors slide open automatically. The first light of dawn filters through the garage’s edges, reflecting off glass windows, metal beams. You carry your luggage, maybe a coffee in hand. It’s peaceful—not the rush you expect before a train ride, but calm. You walk from the garage to the route 128 station , moving past signs that are clear, clean, modern. You glance at the platforms—they’re wide, level, designed so people can move without feeling squeezed. You take a moment to look up the tracks, feel the air, hear distant echo of a train horn. The station already feels like it’s facilitating the journey rather than impeding it.