The train continued toward Elsewhere.
Missy sat very still.
Some questions do not remain in the room where they are asked.
They follow.
Tausk had asked who owns a thought.
A simple enough question—until you try to answer it.
A thought appears inside your head, and naturally you assume it belongs to you.
But houses contain visitors.
Rooms contain echoes.
And sometimes a voice can sound perfectly familiar while saying something you do not remember inviting in.
The mind says:
I thought this.
And then, almost immediately:
Did I?
Missy looked into the old mirror beside the corridor.
Her reflection looked back.
The Storyteller could have explained that this was merely a mirror. Silvered glass. Angle. Position. Nothing supernatural.
Storytellers are capable of being very reasonable when frightened.
But then the reflection smiled.
Missy did not.
She turned away.
Outside, the darkness began thinning.
The machine of night dismantled itself slowly.
Black became blue.
Blue became gray.
Then, somehow, there was sunlight.
Salt in the air.
Seagulls.
A boardwalk.
And above it, a clock beneath a sign that read:
WELCOME TO OCEAN CITY.
Missy stood.
She had the peculiar feeling that she had escaped something.
This feeling was incorrect.
But it was pleasant while it lasted.
Missy woke Bob from his nap by tapping the edge of his seat with two fingers.
“Bob.”
One yellow eye opened.
Then the other.
“You were dreaming.”
“I am aware.”
“The same dream? The one you consulted Joseph about?”
Bob sat up slowly, looking mildly inconvenienced by consciousness.
“Yes. This time I was conducting an inspection.”
“For motifs?”
“For unauthorized motifs.”
“Of course.”
“One should not repeatedly dream the same dream without eventually checking the premises.”
Missy nodded toward the brightening window.
“Ocean City.”
That woke him properly.
Missy pulled her suitcase down and opened it across the seat.
She began packing the loose things she had accumulated on the journey: a notebook, a golden scarf, two books, a receipt she did not remember receiving, and a small brass object whose purpose remained unresolved.
Bob stretched.
Then Missy noticed his suitcase.
It was already open.
Inside were hats.
Arranged with the precision of surgical instruments and the confidence of invited guests.
Missy stopped packing.
“Hats.”
Bob glanced toward her.
For a moment, Tausk’s peculiar hat returned to her—the hat, the conversation, and the question that had followed her back into the cabin.
She remembered a conductor in a cap passing the doorway, a gentleman sleeping beneath a narrow felt hat, and a woman near the window wearing something feathered and impossible.
Missy narrowed her eyes.
“Bob.”
“Yes?”
“Why does everyone on this train wear a hat?”
Bob glanced toward the cabin door.
Then his ears shifted.
“Ms. Understood does not.”
Missy considered this.
“That somehow makes sense.”
“It usually does after several days.”
She pointed toward his suitcase.
“And these?”
Bob immediately sat straighter.
“These are not simply hats.”
“No?”
“This is my immaculate hat collection.”
Missy looked inside again.
The hats rested there—different shapes, different colors, each keeping its own counsel.
Among them were a gray beret, a striped circus cap, and a green velvet top hat. The others kept their secrets.
Missy reached toward the gray beret.
Bob made a sound.
She froze.
“Am I allowed to touch this?”
“You are now.”
She lifted it carefully.
“How many are there?”
“Seven.”
“Why seven?”
“One for each day.”
Missy stared at him.
“You have a different psychological hat for every day of the week.”
Bob looked almost wounded.
“What other kind would there be?”
Missy returned the beret very carefully.
“Eventually, I may tell you about each one,” Bob said.
“All seven?”
“In time.”
Missy closed her suitcase.
Bob inspected her head.
She noticed.
“What?”
He continued staring.
“What?”
“You may need a hat too, Missy.”
She touched her hair instinctively.
“I have a hat.”
“No.”
“I absolutely have a hat.”
“You possess headwear.”
Missy turned toward him.
Bob placed one paw delicately on the edge of his suitcase.
“That is not necessarily the same thing.”
Outside, a gull struck something metallic and screamed at the consequences.
Missy looked at Bob.
Then at the seven hats.
She pointed to the black top hat.
“Which one is that?”
“Sunday.”
“It looks like a top hat.”
“Today it does. Sunday has no shape of its own. It takes the shape of its owner’s mood.”
“What does that say about your mood?” she asked.
Bob looked at her.
“It’s not mine.”
He lifted the hat from the suitcase and held it out.
“It’s yours. You’ll need it.”
Missy hesitated before taking it.
The hat was warm.
“Come on,” Bob said. “Let’s go. I’ll explain later.”
Ocean City waited beyond the window.
There would be hats before there were answers.
Leave a comment