The Train to Elsewhere was making its slow, uncertain way through the night when Missy finally told Bob about her dream involving the Triangle.
She described the voice, the strange geometry of the dream, and the feeling that something had been trying to explain itself without using words.
Bob’s ears tilted back.
“That is odd,” he said. “I’ve been hearing a voice too.”
Missy turned toward him.
“What kind of voice?”
“It claims to be the Triangle.”
“The Triangle speaks to you?”
“Apparently.”
“What does it say?”
“Mostly things with three meanings.”
“And you didn’t think to mention it?”
“I was hoping it would become someone else’s philosophical problem.”
Bob glanced toward the corners of the cabin.
There were four of them.
A moment earlier, he could have sworn there had been only three.
“Have you been reading Ms. Understood’s Red Book?” he asked.
Missy hesitated.
“Perhaps.”
“And her essays on Non-Euclidean Domesticities?”
“Only the first few.”
Bob’s whiskers twitched.
“That explains the dreams.”
“How?”
“Nobody reads Non-Euclidean Domesticities without waking up somewhere architecturally inconvenient.”
Missy folded her arms.
“You think Ms. Understood put the Triangle in my dreams?”
“I think she described a door,” Bob said. “Whether the Triangle opened it is another question.”
“And where does the door lead?”
“If it’s truly non-Euclidean, asking where it leads may already be the wrong question.”
Bob looked darkly out the window.
“Still, I blame Plato.”
“Why Plato?” Missy asked. “Shouldn’t you blame Euclid?”
“Euclid merely measured the damage. Plato gave it metaphysical ambitions.”
Missy laughed.
“That is not how geometry works.”
“That is exactly what geometry wants you to think.”
Bob studied her for a moment.
“You need a hat.”
“Why?”
“Because you clearly don’t have a plan.”
“And a hat would fix that?”
“No,” Bob said. “But it would make the lack of one look intentional.”
Outside, the landscape appeared briefly between folds of darkness, then vanished again. The timetable offered no destination, only a small handwritten note:
Arrival subject to interpretation.
Missy rested her head against the seat.
“I need fresh air,” she said, closing her eyes. “And something that doesn’t have three sides.”
The train rocked gently beneath her.
Somewhere between one station and the next, she fell asleep.
The following morning, Missy woke inside a cave.
There was no train.
No Bob.
Only a damp stone wall covered with twenty-two ancient pictures and a squirrel holding an acorn as though he had been expecting her.
Continue the journey
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