Outside the train window, the forest stood as if time had been asked to leave. And so, it did. Slender trees bent in quiet reflection. The snow blanketed the ground not with softness, but with sweetness. A still one.
Nothing moved. Even the air seemed to pause, exhaling slowly between the trunks. The trees at the edge leaned forward as if listening and the world was about to remember something it was trying to forget.
Bob hadn’t slept, not properly, in days. And that morning, with the sun so unsure of itself, Bob had awoken with the lingering taste of Belgian chocolate in his mouth.
Suddenly an image of Bearton and a box of chocolates popped into his mind. And although he felt a strange disorientation, he put on his brave face and stepped out of the sleeping cabin. (You see, Bob hadn’t found his brave hat yet.)
Insomnia, yes, but not the tired kind. The Spilliaert kind. The kind where the night becomes ink, and silence paints staircases that don’t lead anywhere you recognize.
Inside the car marked Der Spiegel, where sleeping cabins were located, Bob the Black Cat sat quietly. He was not looking at the forest. A mirror on the cabin wall caught his eye.
He blinked. Again. Then frowned. He was there.
The mirror, bolted to the train wall, had once belonged to a rather self-important baron who spent most of his inheritance on self-reflection. It had since been re-commissioned by the Train to Elsewhere.
And odd enough, despite all abstraction, it was winter. And it was cold outside. Bob gazed at the mirror. Blinked once. Then again.
And suddenly noticed: his reflection was wearing a hat. Not the Big and Beautiful Cowboy Hat. Not the Philosopher’s Beret. The Lethe Hat: the soft brown one with the bent brim and the faint scent of river water clinging to the threadbare lining.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Bearton stepped into view, rubbing sleep from one eye. Bob tilted his head. His reflection tilted first. That was the second clue.
“What are you doing, Bob?” came Bearton’s voice behind him, cheerful and crumb-covered. “Bearton,” Bob inquired inquisitively, “do you remember this hat?”
Bearton scratched one ear thoughtfully:
“Yes. You wore it when we first met. Right before I found that unopened letter. I was just passing through the cabin to grab a honey biscuit from the pantry car. The floor rumbled … the lights flickered … and I saw a brown hat. Just lying there in the corridor.”
He looked at Bob, then at the hat on Bob’s head, and continued: “I picked it up. Handed it to you.” You took the hat and said: “Memory walks faster than the train, but it’s always late. Or something like that. I didn’t really understand. Then I went to ask the conductor for a nap cabin.”
Bob replied, “I don’t remember that. Not even the biscuit.”
Bob clearly remembered: he picked up the hat by the river. He had found it there, by the train’s steps. He had put it on only after deciding not to forget. And yet, there it was? Already on his head before descending to the underworld?
Bearton paused. “Are you certain?”
“I’m a cat. I’m rarely certain, but I’m never casual!” stated Bob.
“You know,” Bearton murmured slowly, “I never told you this, but I didn’t go in.”
Bob blinked: “In where?”
“The river.” Bearton said, staring at the mirror now, too. “Everyone else lined up, all reverent and mysterious. I was tired. I told myself I’d go after a quick nap.”
He sighed and looked down at his big paws. “Woke up two stops later. Missed the whole forgetful spectacle.”
Bob turned, ears perked, the Lethe Hat tilting ever so slightly.
“So … you remember everything?”
Bearton nodded. “Every biscuit at every station.”
They both stared at the mirror. “Well,” Bob said, “that explains why you remembered this hat before I even found it!”
Outside, the trees leaned still. Inside, paradox brewed like tea.
Then suddenly, Bearton narrowed his eyes and murmured: “Léon Spilliaert” and Bob remembered the box of chocolates.
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