As the train ‘choo-choo’s away from you, its red body disappearing in as much as a stroke of a brush, you turn your back on this scene and face the neat little building that is the station itself. Taking a deep breath, though you don’t really know why, you push open the door, which reiterates its joyful tinkle at your presence.
The stationmaster is at work behind a desk, though he looks as if he is slumbering too, his clothes floating between white and red and black, as the hat upon his head, an amazing red fez, flutters up and down magically. For a second, you stop at stare at him, before turning and surveying the rest of this building in the centre of the station.
In front of you there is a door, giving off the impression of superiority, and tightly shut, but labelled, in a rather contradictory manner, with ‘Come Here’. It tantilises you as you observe its light wood, slightly tarnished. Why is there something that makes you feel that you belong behind it?
Despite the fact you twist yourself away, you can’t help but steal a look at the door again. What is behind it? What is it that’s calling?
You sit on one of the battered sofas that face the window and the empty track, but, after a minute, you realise that it is going to be very boring just sitting around. There’s a train timetable on a notice-board; it seems to be full of mysterious, shifting shapes instead of normal words, but you quickly discern that the next train to ‘Flandtalicaansy’ (wherever that might be) will be along soon.