Branches pass through the train roof without breaking the glass. Moth, an engineer with cropped silver hair, is watering an apple tree with tea. One apple smells of your father's old coat. Inside its skin you glimpse the station's final afternoon: you demanding he bring the trains back, him holding the biscuit tin without an answer. You reach toward it, then stop. Moth tips the heavy watering can toward you. You help her carry it instead. At the orchard's edge, every tree bears the same unripe fruit. She cuts one open. A minute hand ticks against its seeds. Not a broken wheel, then. Someone keeps ordering a morning the line can't deliver. You describe Nell and her drawings. Moth sets the apple down carefully. We'd better find out who's been helping her place that order.
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.