The Train to Elsewhere stood still. Waiting. Its engines hummed faintly, like a choir holding its breath. Outside, the fog from the River of Forgetfulness curled around the station, wrapping memory in silk. Passengers had not yet returned from the banks. They were still out there—wandering, forgetting, remembering, just enough to get back.
Inside, in a velvet-lined seat, Bob the Black Cat was already aboard. He had returned from the river early on purpose or by instinct, who knows, and now sat flipping through a slim, peculiar booklet titled Blinking Guide: Vol. III: When Not to Remember.
His eyes, yellow and thoughtful, flicked across the page. Every now and then, his tail made a slow figure eight. That’s when he heard it: a sniffle. Then a small sob. Across the aisle, hunched beneath a tiny umbrella, sat a white rabbit in a vest that was much too polite for the day he was having.
“What’s going on for you, dear little furry friend?” Bob asked softly, setting the booklet down. The rabbit looked up, ears drooped like tired petals.
“It’s my grandmother,” he whispered. “She’s sick. Really sick. I don’t think we’ll reach the hospital in time. And even if we did … I don’t know how we’d pay for her care.”
Bob’s whiskers twitched. Something in his chest did too, though he wasn’t used to naming it. He didn’t know what to say. He felt a strange unease. So instead of speaking, he poured the rabbit a warm cup of tea and a thought: “Let the steam carry the silence. Let the quiet be kind.” He did not say those words out loud, of course. He was not that kind of cat, but his eyes did and that was enough.
The rabbit slowly dried his tears and as a token of gratitude handed Bob a tiny yellow circle. It was a monocle. Bob thanked the rabbit and returned to his designated seat. The rabbit whispered gently, as if he was giving away an ancient secret: “Use it on your left eye only.”
Bob sat for a while. Then he noticed: The rabbit was gone. So were the others. The entire cabin was empty. Even the Conductor had vanished, likely off gathering the passengers still wandering the fog. The only sign they’d ever been there were the hats, left behind, one by one, each resting on a seat, as if saving it for later memory.
Bob stood. He didn’t know why exactly, but it felt like the right thing to do. “I think we should become a hat collector,” he whispered, half in jest. “Well, ain’t that a terrific idea?” he replied back to himself, tapping his shoulder approvingly.
And so, he began. One hat at a time. A floppy straw hat. A velvet bonnet with constellations. A bowler hat that whispered secrets when turned upside down. He collected them all, handling each as if it were someone’s forgotten story.
Then, he reached for the final hat. It was large. Ridiculously large. A cowboy hat, oversized and awkward, made of stiff brown felt with a bent brim. On the side, in gold embroidery, it read: BIG AND BEAUTIFUL.
Bob blinked. “What a strange name,” he thought, whiskers twitching with feline judgment. “Especially for a hat that’s so … ugly.” He tilted his head, sighed, and extended a paw to pick it up anyway.
But just then, he heard it: heavy footsteps. Boots. Slippers. Bare feet. Heels. The passengers were returning. Bob couldn’t scoop up the hat. It was too late, and he decided to return to his seat. On his way back, he noticed a strange brown coat and without a second thought, he grabbed it and quickly put it on. But before he rushed back to his seat, he gave the strange hat yet another glance.
Bob slid the ancient suitcase under the bench and poured himself another cup of tea. Then he composed his tail and reopened his Blinking Guide, as if nothing at all had happened.
And then … the train began to move. Rumbling, rumbling. Faster. Faster. The quicker it went, the more disoriented the returning passengers became. They blinked and forgot. Blinked again and remembered just enough.
Continue the journey
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