The sunrise ticket leads to a dining car with a different morning at every table. One window looks onto falling snow. Another shows a blue sea and laundry lifting between houses. At the smallest table, rain shines on a familiar kitchen step. A place has been laid for you. Beside the plate is the biscuit tin. Its lid carries the same dent you made with a cricket ball when you were nine. You lift it. Inside are two sandwiches, a small apple, and the letter you have not answered. It is the actual letter, creased where you folded it into your coat. The railway has not improved your handwriting or your excuses. Across the aisle, an elderly man sits before an untouched boiled egg. He is wearing a wedding suit. The flower in his buttonhole has gone to seed. He tells you he will eat when he has decided whether to visit his brother. They argued about an inheritance. He can no longer remember exactly which object began it, but he remembers being right. You ask how long he has been waiting. He looks at his egg with sudden alarm. It has become a very small tree. Quill brings a fresh pot of tea. He does not laugh. The service does not punish indecision. It simply has difficulty distinguishing a pause from a destination. You put the letter in your pocket and close the tin. For the first time, you wonder whether finding the perfect answer has been a way of avoiding a smaller, less impressive one. At the far end of the car, a child's yellow coat disappears through a door. A red scarf trails behind it. You call out, but the door closes gently. The man in the wedding suit asks whether you think his brother still likes marmalade. You tell him asking would be a reasonable place to start. He reaches for his teaspoon.
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.