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An arrival in the window
The train arrived at 18:12 on Thursday, which was awkward because Leela had already accepted it at 08:12 on Wednesday. It was still the same green vintage railway carriage, marooned on the museum platform in Merewick, a fictional railway town whose working station had moved uphill. Nothing on this platform connected to a working railway. No wheels turned. Nevertheless, an arrival bell rang, the emerald paint shivered, and morning appeared in one window while evening gathered against all the others.
Leela, a forty-eight-year-old South Asian woman with short salt-and-pepper hair, pulled her cobalt jacket close. As municipal archivist she had handled false dates, false signatures and one photograph of a mayor opening a bridge that had not yet been built. None had looked back at her. In the bright window, yesterday's Leela walked past carrying an empty tea tray. The real tray stood beside her, washed and dry. She put her hand against the glass. The reflected woman did not turn.
Ivo emerged from beneath an old station clock, gray hair powdered with brass filings, his mustard cardigan buttoned crookedly. The older clockmaker glanced at the silver edging of the window and stopped. "Tell me that bell was your telephone." Leela held up her silent phone. Across the platform, three restored clocks agreed on 18:12; the fourth, visible only in the carriage window, showed 08:12. "Your exhibition has arrived," she said. "It appears to have missed its day." Ivo did not laugh. He asked whether she still had the receipt they had both signed yesterday.