Beyond the orchard, the railway widens into a covered market. Stalls are built from luggage. A woman sells umbrellas which know when to open. A man repairs the handles of arguments so their owners can pick them up more carefully. At a counter made of stacked clocks, Quill collects a parcel containing a replacement second. The stallholder examines it against the light and shakes his head. It is yesterday's. Perfectly serviceable, he says, but not for this particular repair. Near the exit, a passenger in a thin summer dress is trying to exchange a handful of apologies for a winter coat. The vendor says apologies are not legal tender unless they have actually been delivered. You have a coat. You could manage without it for a while. The passenger is shivering in a way which has stopped being picturesque. On the next stall stands a little brass bird with one bent wing. It sings whenever the tracks beyond the market change direction. Moth says it could guide the train through the unfinished part of the line, if someone had time to mend it. Your sewing packet contains blue thread. The bird's wing is held by a loop of wire. You could probably make a temporary repair. You cannot fix everything in the market before the departure bell. Quill waits without offering advice. His missing waistcoat button has exposed a small square of lighter cloth. You realise he has been brushing his coat for a very long time. The woman with the apologies tries smiling at the vendor. It does not make her any warmer. You look from her to the brass bird. Neither choice feels like the single correct answer to a problem. Perhaps the railway has brought you here to do something useful rather than to be told that you are good. Moth takes the faulty second back to its owner. There are some things she will not pretend to repair.
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.