Chapter 15 · free to read
They gave their statements and nobody believed a word of them. Nineteen people insisting the date was wrong. It was filed as mass confusion and stamped closed in a fortnight.
It did not all go back. Forty metres became two. Kestrel Street keeps a scar and nobody in this city can see it but me.
The punch was warm. Nothing else down there had been warm in thirty-nine years.
The Blackline is closed and she is on it, and I cannot write her back because there is nobody left in the record to trade for her. And at 3:47 tomorrow the Greenline leaves a station demolished in 1961, with nineteen empty seats and a manifest in my handwriting.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.