Before the River of Lethe. Before Bob the Cat blinked into being.
There was a station stop so hushed that it slipped past the announcements altogether—Stillwhistle Station. The kind of stop where tea doesn’t spill, but time tilts slightly in the cup. Where the Train to Elsewhere let out a soft sigh of brakes, as if pausing only for a thought.
And that’s when he boarded.
Billie Elsewhere—a cheerful beaver with orange hair like defiant autumn and a slicked back with more hope than product. He carried nothing but a crumpled resignation letter—tucked in a folder full of rejected blueprints for a dam too grand to work, a broken engineering pencil, and something that looked like dignity but might’ve just been indigestion.
No one really remembered Billie boarding the train. Which is strange, because it did happen. Just didn’t announce itself.
The beaver first introduced himself to the conductor as Billie Elsewhere. Later, though, that would change. They’d call him Big Billie Elsewhere—because he tried very hard to matter.
Later still, he’d drop the last name altogether. Said it was too confusing. Said he couldn’t stand that he and the train shared a name. Said, with a twitch of his whiskers: “No one should have to share their destiny with public transportation.”
So here he was, a beaver who had left his building enterprise job back in the Enchanted Forest and decided to move to the Capital of Nowhere to seek new opportunities.
Once on the train, Billie smiled. He lightly adjusted his belt above the waist, sighed a little louder than necessary, and moved down the corridor toward the Dream Administration car—which may or may not have existed yet.
But that’s another paradox. And another stop. Later.
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