The train lurched before it committed to movement.
A low pull ran through the carriage—subtle at first, then firm enough to press into my back as the weight shifted forward. The wooden bench beneath me creaked, joints adjusting to motion that had not yet settled into rhythm.
"How are you feeling?"
Miss Alvie's voice came from beside me.
The question didn't rush. It simply arrived.
I rolled my shoulders once, slow, feeling the stiffness catch and release along my spine.
"Exhausted."
The word dragged slightly.
I adjusted my position against the seat, pressing my palm briefly into the wood as if to ground myself.
"And… plenty annoyed, I think."
The train pulled harder.
Outside, the platform began to slide—not vanish, not blur, just… drift. Faces turned into shapes. Shapes into colour. Then distance.
"Makes sense."
Her reply came easily.
No weight attached.
Between us, a small stack of bags shifted as the carriage swayed, the fabric brushing lightly against itself. She leaned forward, one hand bracing against her knee as the other reached for the nearest one.
Paper crinkled softly as she opened it.
The sound folded into the rhythm of the train.
I watched from the corner of my eye, not turning fully.
"What's with the… outfit?"
The question slipped out without much thought.
She paused—only for a fraction of a second—before continuing, fingers slipping into the bag and pulling something loose.
"Made a new friend."
Her tone stayed level.
She lifted a small pouch, weighing it lightly in her palm.
"Got to play dress up."
The train leaned into a curve. The motion pressed us slightly to one side before easing again.
"Shared a meal."
She brought the pouch closer, loosening the string with careful fingers. The knot resisted for a moment, then gave.
She inhaled.
Slow.
Measured.
Her eyes softened—just slightly.
I leaned forward a fraction, enough to catch the faint scent as it reached the space between us.
Tea.
Dry.
Floral at the edge.
"I heard they bloom when put in hot water."
The words came quieter this time.
"They do."
She tied the string back, more carefully than she had opened it, then set the pouch aside. It rested near the edge of the seat, shifting faintly with each sway of the carriage.
Silence settled.
Not empty.
Just… occupied.
The train found its rhythm.
Metal against metal. A low, repeating grind that filled the space beneath everything else.
"We want to play a game that passes the time faster."
She didn't look at me when she said it.
It wasn't a question.
I nodded once.
Cards came first.
Simple.
The deck slid between us with a soft shuffle, edges catching briefly before aligning. The paper felt worn under my fingers—used, but maintained. I dealt without thinking, the motion automatic, hands moving in a pattern I didn't need to watch.
She played quickly.
Not carelessly.
Just… without hesitation.
The cards hit the seat between us with soft, flat sounds. A rhythm formed—draw, place, shift. The train's motion added a slight inconsistency to each movement, forcing small corrections mid-action.
My hand tightened before I realized it had moved.
I adjusted.
So did she.
No words.
No need.
After a while, the deck thinned. The game ended without ceremony.
She gathered the cards.
Set them aside.
Then reached for something else.
The board unfolded with a faint click as it settled into place. The pieces followed—wood against wood, each one placed with quiet precision.
Chess.
Slower.
Each move carried weight.
The train shifted again, and I paused mid-reach, adjusting the angle of my hand before placing the piece down. It clicked softly into position.
She watched.
Then responded.
No delay.
Time stretched.
The light outside shifted—bright to warm, then warmer still. The edges of shadows lengthened across the fields beyond the window, slipping between patches of open land and scattered trees.
Eventually, the board stilled.
Neither of us reached for the pieces again.
The silence returned.
Different this time.
She leaned back slightly, reaching into her bag without looking.
Her fingers closed around a book.
Plain.
Unremarkable.
Until she opened it.
"What's that?"
I leaned in without thinking.
"Watch."
She turned a page.
The air shifted.
It wasn't visible.
Not directly.
But something in the way the space held itself… changed. The weight of the carriage, the rhythm of the train, even the distance between us—all of it seemed to adjust, just slightly.
The ink on the page didn't stay still.
It moved.
Formed.
Unfolded.
A figure took shape—not fully present, not fully absent. A man in white robes, turning as if responding to something unseen.
Then—
A blade.
It passed through him.
Clean.
Immediate.
The moment ended before it had time to settle.
I blinked.
The carriage returned.
The book remained open in her hands.
"This isn't reading."
The words came out lower than I expected.
"No."
She turned the page again.
The previous image dissolved without resistance, ink returning to stillness.
"How did you do that?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she closed the book and reached into her bag again, pulling out another one. This one was lighter. The edges slightly worn.
"Easy."
She held it out to me.
"Using a book as a medium, I transcribe a narrative into it."
I took it.
The cover felt smooth beneath my fingers, the weight balanced in a way that made it easy to hold without thinking.
She leaned back, already reaching for something else from her bag.
"Why don't you try it?"
I looked down at the book.
Opened it.
Blank.
Still.
It didn't feel empty.
It felt… waiting.
"This feels like…"
I paused, fingers hovering just above the page.
"Like reliving something. Not reading."
"Good."
She shifted her position, pulling her boots off with a quiet thud against the floor. She tucked her legs beneath her, settling into the seat.
"Our minds are unique."
She bit into a cracker, the sound small but sharp in the quiet.
"That flavour… it helps."
I nodded slowly.
The book rested in my hands.
"What do I do next?"
"You decide."
She didn't look at me.
"How do you want the story to be triggered?"
I closed the book.
Ran my thumb along the edge of the pages.
Opened it again.
Nothing.
I closed it.
Opened it.
Still nothing.
The train's rhythm pressed in, steady, unchanging.
"Maybe…"
I tried again.
"Each page is a scene."
No response.
The pages remained still.
"You view it based on what you compare it to."
Her voice came from somewhere to my side.
"If you think it's a movie, it'll behave like one."
I leaned back slightly, exhaling through my nose.
That didn't help.
Or maybe it did.
Time passed.
The light outside faded—gold to amber, then to something cooler, quieter. The carriage interior dimmed until the overhead lights flickered faintly to life.
I kept trying.
Different approaches.
Different assumptions.
Nothing settled.
Excitement thinned.
Frustration took its place.
Still—I didn't stop.
Not until—
"A dream."
The word slipped out under my breath.
I paused.
The book rested in my hands.
I closed it.
Opened it.
The world fell in.
Immediate.
No transition.
No adjustment.
The smell hit first.
Rotten.
Sharp.
It filled my lungs before I could stop it, forcing a reaction out of me as I recoiled instinctively.
The ground beneath me shifted—soft, uneven.
The air pressed closer.
"Miss—"
I turned.
Stopped.
She was asleep.
Curled slightly into herself, her breathing slow and even. The rise and fall of her shoulders steady, unaffected by anything I had just experienced.
The book rested loosely in my hands again.
The carriage returned.
I exhaled slowly.
"You're not such a bad teacher."
Carefully, I reached over, adjusting her position just enough so her neck wouldn't strain against the seat. Her head shifted slightly, settling into a more natural angle.
She didn't wake.
I leaned back.
The memory lingered.
Not just the oni.
Other fragments surfaced.
The forest.
The kitchen.
Heiwa.
The warmth of it sat differently now—faint, but present.
"Can I also—"
I stopped.
The thought didn't finish.
The carriage ceiling stretched above me.
Small points of light flickered into existence—faint, scattered, uneven. They hovered there, distant without distance, like something pretending to be stars.
I reached up.
My fingers passed through empty air.
They didn't move.
Didn't react.
Just… remained.
"I wonder what—"
A yawn cut through the thought.
Sharp.
Unavoidable.
Fatigue hit immediately after.
Heavy.
I shifted, pulling my boots off and letting them rest loosely on the floor. The book slid beside me, settling near the bag Mrs Daria had given us.
The air felt still.
Too still.
I let a small current move through the space—barely enough to notice, just enough to keep it from settling completely.
It would fade by morning.
Another yawn.
My eyes closed before I could resist it.
The rhythm of the train softened.
Thoughts thinned.
And without resistance—
sleep took me.