At midnight, a train arrives at the abandoned station. Its doors open just for you. Above the platform, a clock begins to run backward. You were not waiting for a train. You came to photograph the station before the demolition crew arrives on Monday. There is a hole in the roof, a birch tree growing through the ticket office, and a notice explaining that trespassers will be prosecuted by a railway company which no longer exists. Your father used to bring you here to watch the last service cross the river. He carried sandwiches in a biscuit tin. You remember the tin more clearly than anything he said, which feels unfair now that you have spent six months deciding how to answer his latest letter. He has moved into a smaller house. He would like you to collect the things in the attic. He has not said whether the biscuit tin is among them. You have not asked. The new train looks older than the station. Brass lamps burn beside velvet seats. Steam curls over the broken paving without making it wet. Somewhere inside, a spoon taps a cup three times. A silver fox leans from the nearest door. He wears a navy conductor's cap and a teal waistcoat, both impeccably brushed. One gold button is missing. We are running a little early. It is an unusual problem. I am Quill. Do you have anything you have been meaning to do? You think of the unanswered letter. The fox politely looks away, as if he has heard an embarrassing sound from your luggage. Behind you, the iron gate swings shut. It is not locked. You test it to make sure. When you turn back, the station sign has changed, and something small and silver rolls beneath the bench. The fox checks a watch with no hands. For the first time, his practiced smile slips.
A midnight train has lost its final minute. Follow a silver fox through impossible stations, and find your own way to morning.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.