The station clock is still seven minutes slow. You notice it before you notice the fresh paint on the ticket office, or the climbing roses trained over the gate, or Iris standing beneath them with a paper bag held against her chest. She sees you checking your watch and smiles. Some things here are deliberately unreliable, she says. It gives people a second chance to arrive on time. You have rehearsed this meeting on the train. A warm greeting. An ordinary question about the journey. Nothing that suggests you have kept the last photograph she sent, or that you can still remember exactly where her hand rested on your arm the summer you left. Instead, you say that her hair is shorter. She says your suitcase is better. Then you both laugh with more relief than either observation deserves. The bag contains two apricot pastries from the bakery beside the canal. Iris bought yours without asking whether you still liked them. You are touched by this small confidence, and slightly frightened by how little it takes. You have come to empty your grandmother's bookshop before the building changes hands on Monday. Iris has volunteered to help. She says she has the whole weekend, which sounds generous until you remember that she has always been careful about what she promises. At the station gate, a poster advertises Bellweather's summer lantern festival. Under it someone has written, in chalk, Bring something you are ready to let go. Iris takes the smaller suitcase. Shall we start with the difficult part, she asks, or would you like coffee first?
A weekend in your grandmother’s bookshop. A box of unsent letters. The person you never quite said goodbye to.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.