A different morning fills each dining-car window. At your table stands your father's biscuit tin, dented where you hit it with a cricket ball. Inside is the unanswered letter. Across the aisle, a man in a wedding suit waits before a boiled egg. He will eat after deciding whether to visit his brother, he says. They argued about an inheritance. He no longer remembers which object started it. You ask how long he has waited. He looks down. His egg has become a small tree. At the far door, a girl in yellow vanishes into the next carriage, singing the beginning of a song. The same beginning you heard when you boarded. You put the letter away. The man asks whether his brother still likes marmalade. You suggest asking him. He reaches for his teaspoon. For a moment, the train moves.
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.