There are passengers here after all. They sleep in neat compartments, their shoes lined up beneath the berths. On every door, a little card names the thing its occupant is waiting for. For the right moment. For permission. For the fear to pass. The elderly man from the dining car is not here. You decide to count that as good news, even if you cannot be sure there was only one dining car. At the end of the corridor, a girl in a mustard-yellow coat sits on a suitcase. She is about twelve, with warm brown skin, a dark braid and a blue woollen hat. A red scarf is tucked beneath her chin. She is trying to sew a silver button onto her cuff with an invisible needle. She cups the empty space as you approach. I dropped it somewhere. I can still mend the place it belongs, though. That is nearly the same thing. You introduce yourself. Her name is Nell. She tells you she is travelling to a morning when her mother will be better. She says this briskly, as if the destination is printed on a ticket and therefore does not require discussion. You ask where her mother is now. At home. Resting. They said it would take time. Nobody would tell me exactly how much. Quill has stopped several doors away. He pretends to inspect a luggage rack while giving you both the privacy of a conversation which is clearly worrying him. You offer to help look for the button. Nell shakes her head too quickly. There is an orchard after this. The apples taste like things you remember. Don't eat one if you are hungry for something that cannot happen again. She slips through the connecting door. By the time you reach it, the corridor beyond is empty. On her suitcase, she has left a small packet of ordinary sewing needles. One is threaded with blue cotton. It seems she has been trying real repairs as well.
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.