Iris is waiting beneath the station roses with two apricot pastries. You have rehearsed this reunion for most of the train journey. All the sensible openings disappear when she smiles. You say her hair is shorter. She says your suitcase is better. Then you both laugh, and the years between you briefly lose their footing. You have until Monday to empty your grandmother's bookshop. Iris has offered the weekend. Dora used to call the two of you her most reliable unpaid staff; you stopped earning that description when you left town without saying what you meant. Your favorite. Unless you've become someone who dislikes apricot. You take the bag too quickly. She notices, but lets you keep the little dignity that remains. Above the platform, the clock is still seven minutes slow. Iris catches you checking it. Don't trust that one. It used to make us think we had time for everything. She lifts one end of your suitcase. You take the other, and together you carry it through the gate.
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.