Under the bench is a brown paper parcel tied with blue string. It is much too large to have made the tiny sound you heard. The silver button beside it is exactly the right size. You pick up both. The button is shaped like the moon, with a small crescent scratched into its back. It is warm against your palm. The parcel smells faintly of oranges and the inside of an old wardrobe. Its label says Please take care of this until I come back. There is no name, no address, and no indication of how long anyone has already been taking care of it. For a moment, you consider leaving it where it is. You have enough unfinished obligations without accepting a mysterious parcel from an abandoned railway. Then the paper moves. Not much. Just enough to suggest something inside has settled more comfortably. You untie the string. There is nothing alive inside. There is a child's red scarf, a broken umbrella, and a loaf of bread still warm from an oven. Between them lies a note: These things are not valuable. They are needed. Quill watches from the door. You ask whether the parcel belongs to him. Not yet. Possibly never. Ownership is generally less useful than being the person standing closest to something which needs carrying. You tell him that sounds like an expensive policy. It has ruined several excellent trousers. Shall I find you a shelf? You put the bread back beside the scarf and retie the string. The button goes into your pocket. You cannot explain why you keep it separate. As you climb aboard, the station loudspeaker crackles. A woman's voice says the line is experiencing a temporary delay of indefinite duration. Quill closes his eyes. We have been asking her to stop calling it temporary.
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.