The lost-property market is built from suitcases. Quill buys a replacement second, but the seller discovers it belongs to yesterday. Moth makes him return it. Nearby, a shivering woman offers apologies for a winter coat. The vendor will accept money, or an apology that has actually been delivered. She has neither. On the next stall, a brass bird sings whenever the rails change direction. Its wing is bent. Moth says it might guide them through the unfinished track if someone can repair it. You have a coat and a sewing kit. The departure bell begins, stops, begins again. There is time for one useful thing before the loop catches you. The woman hides her hands under her arms. The bird tries its wing and falls against the counter. Quill waits without telling you which one to notice.
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.