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Tweedle Do and Tweedle Don’t at the Funfair

Tweedle Do and Tweedle Don’t at the Funfair

The funfair arrived in Wonderland on a Thursday morning without asking permission.

Nobody saw the lorries arrive.

Nobody saw anyone putting up the rides.

One moment there was an empty meadow beside the road to the Queen’s croquet ground, and the next there were striped tents, coloured flags, swinging boats, spinning teacups and a magnificent Ferris wheel turning slowly against the blue sky.

A huge sign stood at the entrance:

THE WONDERLAND GRAND FUNFAIR

RIDES! GAMES! PRIZES!

FUN GUARANTEED

REFUNDS STRICTLY IMPOSSIBLE

Tweedle Do read the sign.

“Fun guaranteed,” he said. “That sounds promising.”

Tweedle Don’t read it too.

“Refunds impossible,” he said. “That sounds suspicious.”

They bought two tickets from a rabbit wearing a green waistcoat.

“Sixpence each,” said the rabbit.

Tweedle Do handed him a shilling.

The rabbit gave him three buttons, a peppermint and a small potato.

“What’s this?” asked Tweedle Do.

“Your change.”

“But it isn’t money.”

“It changed, didn’t it?”

Tweedle Don’t nodded thoughtfully.

“He’s got you there.”

They went inside.

Their first stop was the Merry-Go-Round of Uncertain Destination.

It looked perfectly ordinary except that every wooden horse was facing a different direction.

A notice beside it said:

ALL RIDERS MUST REMAIN SEATED UNTIL THEY HAVE ARRIVED SOMEWHERE.

“Shall we?” asked Tweedle Do.

“We probably shouldn’t,” said Tweedle Don’t.

So naturally they climbed aboard.

The music began.

The horses started moving.

Tweedle Do’s horse galloped clockwise.

Tweedle Don’t’s horse went anticlockwise.

A third horse went sideways.

A fourth climbed halfway up its pole and refused to come down.

The ride spun faster and faster.

“THIS IS WONDERFUL!” shouted Tweedle Do.

“THIS IS TERRIBLE!” shouted Tweedle Don’t.

They passed one another.

“WONDERFUL!”

“TERRIBLE!”

“WONDERFUL!”

“TERRIBLE!”

When the ride finally stopped, Tweedle Do was wearing Tweedle Don’t’s cap, Tweedle Don’t was holding somebody else’s umbrella, and neither of them could remember which direction the entrance was.

“That,” said Tweedle Do, “was excellent.”

“That,” said Tweedle Don’t, “should be illegal.”

They moved on.

Next came the Hall of Mirrors.

A tall man with a moustache like two frightened caterpillars stood outside.

“Step inside!” he cried. “See yourselves as you have never seen yourselves before!”

“That sounds interesting,” said Tweedle Do.

“That sounds unnecessary,” said Tweedle Don’t.

They entered.

The first mirror made Tweedle Do enormously tall and Tweedle Don’t extremely thin.

The second made them both square.

The third gave Tweedle Do seventeen ears.

The fourth showed no reflection at all.

Tweedle Don’t stared into it.

“I’m not there.”

Tweedle Do looked.

“Neither am I.”

“Perhaps we’ve gone missing.”

“Should we report it?”

“To whom?”

Then, quite suddenly, the mirror itself spoke.

“Next!”

A small door appeared in the glass and swung open.

Tweedle Do and Tweedle Don’t ran out.

“I didn’t like that one,” said Tweedle Do.

“I did,” said Tweedle Don’t.

They both stopped.

Tweedle Do frowned.

“You liked it?”

“I appear to have done.”

“This fair is doing something to us.”

Before Tweedle Don’t could answer, there came a tremendous clang.

DING! DING! DING!

A crowd had gathered around a brightly painted stall.

Above it hung a sign:

THE GREAT WONDERLAND STRENGTH TEST

HIT THE BUTTON

RING THE BELL

WIN AN IMPOSSIBLY LARGE PRIZE

Behind the stall stood an enormous stuffed flamingo.

Tweedle Do gasped.

“I want that.”

“You have nowhere to put it.”

“I’ll find somewhere.”

“You haven’t got enough room.”

“I’ll make some.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I shall.”

The stallholder handed Tweedle Do an enormous wooden mallet.

“One strike,” he said.

Tweedle Do lifted the mallet.

He swung.

WHUMP!

The weight shot up the tower.

It passed WEAK.

It passed AVERAGE.

It passed SURPRISINGLY STRONG.

It passed SHOWING OFF NOW.

Then it struck the bell.

DING!

The crowd cheered.

The stuffed flamingo was presented to Tweedle Do.

It was nine feet tall.

Tweedle Don’t stared at it.

“How are we going to carry that?”

“We?”

“Yes, we.”

“I thought you said I shouldn’t win it.”

“That was before you won it.”

They carried the flamingo between them.

Or rather, they attempted to.

Its neck became tangled in the bunting.

Its feet knocked over a toffee-apple stand.

Its beak accidentally removed a man’s hat.

“Sorry!” called Tweedle Do.

“Not sorry!” shouted Tweedle Don’t.

Tweedle Do stopped.

“What?”

“I don’t know why I said that.”

Things were definitely getting peculiar.

Then they saw the biggest attraction in the entire fair.

It was surrounded by flashing lights.

Trumpets played.

Drums rolled.

A mechanical voice boomed:

“COME ONE! COME ALL! RIDE THE GREAT DO-OR-DON’T MACHINE!”

Tweedle Do froze.

Tweedle Don’t froze.

They looked at each other.

The machine consisted of two enormous chairs mounted on a circular platform.

Above one chair was the word:

DO

Above the other:

DON’T

“This seems rather specifically aimed at us,” said Tweedle Do.

“We definitely shouldn’t ride it,” said Tweedle Don’t.

Five minutes later they were strapped in.

The stuffed flamingo had been propped against the side of the machine, where it leaned crookedly with its long beak pointing towards the sky.

The operator pulled a lever.

The machine began to spin.

A mechanical voice asked:

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME CAKE?”

“DO!” shouted Tweedle Do.

“DON’T!” shouted Tweedle Don’t.

A slice of cake landed in Tweedle Do’s lap.

The machine spun faster.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO JUMP IN A PUDDLE?”

“DO!”

“DON’T!”

A puddle appeared beneath Tweedle Do’s chair.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO WEAR A CHEESE HAT?”

“DO!”

“DON’T!”

A large wedge of cheddar dropped onto Tweedle Do’s head.

“This is brilliant!” he cried.

“This is ridiculous!” shouted Tweedle Don’t.

The machine rattled.

The lights flashed.

The platform spun faster and faster.

Then everything suddenly slowed.

The fairground music faded.

The mechanical voice became much deeper.

“FINAL QUESTION.”

Tweedle Do stopped smiling.

Tweedle Don’t gripped the sides of his chair.

The voice continued.

“WOULD YOU LIKE THE FUNFAIR TO CONTINUE FOREVER?”

Tweedle Do opened his mouth.

Then he hesitated.

Forever?

No going home.

No supper.

No beds.

No quiet afternoons.

No chance ever to do anything except ride rides and eat toffee apples.

For the first time all day, the answer did not seem obvious.

“Don’t,” said Tweedle Do.

At exactly the same moment, Tweedle Don’t shouted:

“DO!”

The machine stopped.

Everything stopped.

The Ferris wheel froze.

The carousel froze.

The music stopped.

Even a toffee apple falling from a stick stopped halfway to the ground.

Tweedle Do stared at Tweedle Don’t.

“You said do.”

“You said don’t.”

“I know.”

“So do I.”

A little panel opened in front of them.

Inside was a red button.

Above it were the words:

IN CASE OF CONTRADICTION, PRESS ONCE

Below that, somebody had added:

DO NOT PRESS TWICE

Tweedle Do reached for it.

Tweedle Don’t reached for it too.

Their fingers touched the button together.

CLICK.

For one terrible second, nothing happened.

Then the whole funfair sneezed.

AAAAA-CHOOOOOO!

Flags flew into the air.

Balloons shot sideways.

The Ferris wheel turned backwards.

Three coconuts rolled out of the coconut shy and escaped beneath a fence.

The Hall of Mirrors reflected the wrong tent.

The merry-go-round horses applauded.

And the enormous stuffed flamingo gave the tiniest twitch.

Nobody noticed.

Then everything became still.

The operator unfastened the brothers.

“Well done,” he said.

“What did we do?” asked Tweedle Do.

“You disagreed the wrong way round.”

“But we always disagree,” said Tweedle Don’t.

“Yes,” said the operator. “That was the problem. The machine expected you to disagree in the usual way. The moment you swapped answers, it couldn’t decide which of you was which.”

Tweedle Do smiled.

Tweedle Don’t smiled too.

Then they both stopped smiling because agreeing about smiling seemed dangerous.

They collected their enormous flamingo and made for the exit.

At the gate, the rabbit in the green waistcoat waved.

“Did you enjoy yourselves?”

“Yes,” said Tweedle Do.

“No,” said Tweedle Don’t.

They paused.

Then Tweedle Do added:

“Mostly.”

And Tweedle Don’t said:

“Possibly.”

Behind them, the funfair lights blinked on.

A new sign appeared over the entrance.

TWEEDLE DO & TWEEDLE DON’T SPECIAL OFFER

COME AGAIN TOMORROW

OR DEFINITELY DON’T

Tweedle Do looked at his brother.

“Tomorrow?”

Tweedle Don’t considered this.

“Absolutely not.”

They walked another six paces.

“Same time?” asked Tweedle Do.

“Of course,” said Tweedle Don’t.

As they walked away, with the enormous stuffed flamingo wobbling between them, it gave a small shudder.

“Did you feel that?” asked Tweedle Do.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Tweedle Don’t.

Then the flamingo began to laugh.

Neither of them looked back.

 

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One Eye Jack

The Secret Diary of One Eye Jack.
***************************************
Friday, 11th September: The Hedge That Sneezed
I inspected the hedge this morning.
This is one of my duties. Nobody appointed me to inspect it, but nobody else seems prepared to do the job properly.
Halfway along, the hedge sneezed.
I stepped backwards and stared at it with my one excellent eye.
“Bless you,” I said.
“Thank you,” replied the hedge.
A small hedgehog crawled out from beneath the leaves wearing a handkerchief around its neck. It apologised for the confusion and explained that it had caught a cold while sleeping in a damp flowerpot.
I showed it the driest corner of the old shed and shared half my breakfast with it.
I did not share the better half.
There are limits to kindness.
**One Eye Jack**

*Official Inspector of Suspicious Hedges*

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Posted by on September 11, 2026 in cat

 

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Posted by on September 6, 2026 in Uncategorized

 

 
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Posted by on September 6, 2026 in Uncategorized

 

Wonderland Christmas in July.

 

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When Alice Met Nibber Snapwell

Alice had met many curious creatures in Wonderland, but none quite so official as Nibber Snapwell, Junior Assistant Mechanic of Metaphorical Vehicles, who insisted that even impossible cars must be inspected for whimsy, wobble, wonder, and excessive adventure pressure.

 

***

Alice bent down slightly, for Nibber Snapwell was standing on an upturned flowerpot and appeared to be taking his height very seriously.

“Are you a mechanic?” she asked.

Nibber straightened his thimble hat.

“I am a Junior Assistant Mechanic of Metaphorical Vehicles,” he replied. “There is an important difference.”

“What is a metaphorical vehicle?”

“A vehicle that may be going somewhere, meaning something, or doing both at once.”

Alice considered this carefully.

“That sounds rather difficult to repair.”

“It is,” said Nibber proudly. “Ordinary mechanics tighten bolts. I tighten possibilities.”

He held up his brass dipstick.

“This measures oil, imagination, road confidence, excessive wobble, and whether a car has begun to think too much about its own purpose.”

Alice looked around the little workshop. There were maps pinned to the walls, lanterns hanging from hooks, jars filled with spare question marks, and a sign that read:

GLOVE COMPARTMENT BETWEEN HERE AND THERE

“Have you repaired many impossible cars?” she asked.

Nibber glanced at his clipboard.

“Seven cars, two flying carts, a nervous omnibus, one wheelbarrow with ambitions, and a teapot that insisted it was a ferry.”

“And was it?”

“Only on Thursdays.”

Alice smiled.

“And what is wrong with the Crazymad Writer’s Fiat?”

Nibber lowered his voice.

“It is not broken.”

“Then why does it need a mechanic?”

“Because,” said Nibber, tapping his clipboard gravely, “it has started wondering whether being a car is enough.”

Alice looked thoughtful.

“In Wonderland,” she said, “things are often more than they first appear.”

“Exactly,” said Nibber. “But the trick is not to become so many things at once that one forgets what one was to begin with.”

Alice nodded.

“So the Fiat does not need to change into something else.”

“No,” said Nibber. “It needs to remember that a car can be magical and still be a car.”

At that moment, somewhere behind the workshop wall, a horn gave a small uncertain beep.

Nibber sighed.

“There. Do you hear that?”

Alice listened.

“It sounds worried.”

“It is,” said Nibber. “Come along. We had better reassure it before it turns the boot into a ballroom.”

Alice followed him towards the glowing doorway marked THIS WAY TO BALLYKILLDUFF, while Nibber marched ahead with his brass dipstick raised like a sword.

“And Alice,” he added over his shoulder, “whatever you do, do not compliment the glove compartment.”

“Why not?”

“Because it will open up.”

The door swung wide.

Beyond it, Alice saw the Crazymad Writer’s garden, the giant gunnera leaves, and a cream-coloured Fiat 600 sitting very quietly indeed.

Too quietly.

Alice smiled.

“I think,” she said, “this is going to be one of those days.”

 

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The Bank of Imagination – 500 Imagi Crowns

Stories, dreams and ideas

 

The Bank of Imagination – 500 Imagi Crowns

Legal tender in Wonderland

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2026 in Wonderland

 

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Alice in Sunbury 1964, a free eBook download.

Alice in Sunbury 1964, a free eBook download.

Click HERE to download this free eBook.

During the long summer of 1964, Alice arrives in Sunbury-on-Thames expecting nothing more exciting than warm pavements, rainy bus journeys, and afternoons beside the river.
Instead, she finds impossible lanes appearing behind garages.
Clocks begin losing seven minutes.
A white rabbit carrying a pocket watch waits upon the station platform.
And somewhere beneath the Thames, hidden between the ordinary world and another stranger one, something has been waiting many years for Alice to remember it.
As Sunbury slowly slips between decades and Wonderland begins bleeding quietly into suburban England, Alice is drawn aboard the mysterious Midnight Express and into a forgotten world of missing moments, drifting memories, silver rivers, and impossible tea parties beneath willow trees.
But Wonderland is changing.
And so is Alice.
For some things lost in childhood are not truly gone.
They are only waiting to be found again.
Alice in Sunbury 1964 is a nostalgic, dreamlike journey through memory, grief, wonder, and the strange magic hidden quietly inside ordinary places. A timeless riverside fantasy filled with glowing stations, vanished summers, and the lingering echo of paper boats upon dark water.
 

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The Tumblewink of Ballykillduff

The Tumblewink of Ballykillduff

 

The Tumblewink of Ballykillduff

It began, as such things often do, with something so small that no one thought it worth mentioning.

Mrs O’Doolin’s teacups.

They had always hung in a neat and sensible row beside the dresser—handle to the right, pattern facing outward, each one minding its own business in a most respectable fashion.

Until one Tuesday morning (or what strongly insisted it was Tuesday), she found them all facing the wall.

Not broken.
Not fallen.
Simply… turned.

“Well now,” she said, after a pause long enough to consider the matter properly, “that’s not how cups behave.”


By the time the village had gathered its thoughts (which took longer than usual, as several of them had gone slightly missing), other things had begun to occur.

Mr Hanrahan at the signal box discovered that the 9:15 had arrived at 9:15… but from tomorrow.

Jimmy McGroggan insisted his ladder now had one extra rung, though no one could agree where it had come from.

And the sheep—always a reliable measure of reality in Ballykillduff—had arranged themselves in a neat row that appeared, upon closer inspection, to be alphabetical.

No one knew quite how sheep managed such a thing.
Least of all the sheep.


It was Alice who noticed it first.

Not the changes.
Those were everywhere.

No—she noticed the feeling.

That quiet, delicate sense that something had just passed by… not loudly, not boldly, but sideways, as though it had slipped between one moment and the next without troubling either.

She was standing by the hedgerow when she saw it.

At first, it looked like nothing at all.
Then like a scrap of ribbon.
Then like a small, glowing tangle of things that did not entirely agree on what they were.

It drifted—not forward, not back—but slightly aside.

And as it passed a fallen leaf, the leaf stood up straight.

The twig beside it, however, forgot what it was for.


“You must be a Tumblewink,” said Alice, quite calmly.

The creature did not answer.

But something about it… smiled.

Not with a mouth, exactly.
More with the idea of a smile.

Alice stepped closer.

“You’ve been tidying,” she said.

The Tumblewink shimmered.

A button appeared where there had been none before, then vanished again as though it had remembered it belonged elsewhere.

“Yes,” Alice continued, “but not quite properly.”

At this, the Tumblewink gave a small, pleased sort of flicker.


They walked together then—if walked is the correct word for something that moved by gently disagreeing with where it had just been.

Everywhere it passed, things improved… and did not.

A crooked fence straightened itself, while the ground beneath it shifted just enough to make it unnecessary.

A lost glove reappeared—on the wrong hand, worn by someone who did not remember owning it.

A sentence begun by Mrs Fitzgerald—
“I always thought that perhaps—”
—finished itself somewhere else entirely, inside Mr Hanrahan’s head, who responded aloud with,
“—it was the teapot all along.”

No one questioned this.


“Why do you do it?” Alice asked at last.

The Tumblewink paused.

For a moment, it became very still—so still that it almost became nothing.

Then, quite gently, it rearranged the air.

Alice felt it rather than heard it:

Because finished things cannot wander.


They stood in silence.

In the distance, a sheep tried to remember whether it was before or after another sheep and decided it rather preferred not to choose.

Alice looked about her.

Nothing was quite right.

But nothing was quite wrong either.

And somehow… the world felt wider for it.


“Will you stay?” she asked.

The Tumblewink flickered.

For just a moment, it gathered itself into something almost clear—a small, warm shape, like a memory that had not yet decided to fade.

Then it drifted.

Not away.

Not toward.

But between.


The next morning, the teacups were facing outward again.

The clock told the correct time.

The sheep had returned to their usual and entirely disorganised ways.

Everything, it seemed, had been put back as it ought.


And yet…

Mrs O’Doolin would later insist that her favourite cup felt warmer than the others, though she could not say why.

Mr Hanrahan occasionally answered questions no one had asked.

And Alice—

Alice sometimes found herself pausing mid-step, certain—quite certain—that she had just missed something important.

Something small.

Something warm.

Something that had been there…

just before it wasn’t.


And if, on certain quiet evenings in Ballykillduff, a thought goes slightly astray, or a moment feels just a touch unfinished—

no one worries overmuch.

They simply smile,
and leave things… almost as they are.


Because somewhere nearby,
a Tumblewink is still at work.

 

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If you are missing Christmas…

If you are missing Christmas…

The Christmas That Came on the 4:32

Sunbury-on-Thames, December 1964.

The frost arrived early that year, settling itself politely on the rooftops as though it had been invited weeks in advance. By mid-month, every hedge wore a thin white collar, and the river—slow and thoughtful at the best of times—seemed to move only out of habit.

Twelve-year-old Peter Hargreaves noticed things like that.

He noticed the way the milk bottles chimed faintly in the cold mornings.
He noticed the smell of coal fires drifting through Green Street.
And, most particularly, he noticed trains.

The 4:32 from Waterloo was his favourite.

It wasn’t the fastest, nor the most important, but it had a certain… pause about it. A hesitation. As if, just before arriving at Sunbury station, it considered whether it ought to go somewhere else entirely.

Peter mentioned this once to his father.

“Nonsense,” said Mr Hargreaves, without looking up from The Daily Express. “Trains don’t think. They run to schedule.”

But Peter wasn’t so sure.


The Parcel

On the 22nd of December, the 4:32 arrived under a sky the colour of old tin. Peter stood on the platform as usual, hands in pockets, breath puffing like a small steam engine of his own.

The train slowed.

Stopped.

Waited.

And then—this was the curious part—no one got off.

The doors opened, but the carriage nearest Peter remained empty. Completely empty. No passengers. No luggage. Nothing at all.

Except for a single parcel on the seat.

Peter glanced up and down the platform. The stationmaster was busy arguing with a man about a missing umbrella. No one else seemed to notice.

So Peter did what any sensible boy would do.

He stepped into the carriage.

The air inside was warmer, faintly smelling of leather and something else—pine, perhaps, or snow. The parcel sat squarely in the centre of the seat, wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string.

There was a label.

It read:

“To Whoever Notices First.”

Peter swallowed.

“Well,” he said quietly, “that would be me, then.”


The Opening

He took the parcel home under his coat.

His mother was in the kitchen, humming along to the wireless while peeling potatoes.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Train was… thinking,” Peter replied.

She nodded absently. “They do that this time of year.”

Peter blinked. “They do?”

“Mm,” she said. “Now wash your hands.”

That evening, after supper, Peter sat by the small electric fire in the sitting room. The Christmas tree—slightly crooked, decorated with glass baubles and tinsel that refused to behave—glowed softly beside him.

He placed the parcel on his lap.

For a long moment, he simply looked at it.

Then he untied the string.

Inside was a small wooden box.

Inside the box…

…was a bell.

Not a large bell, nor particularly shiny—just a simple, brass handbell, the sort one might find in a railway office long ago.

There was a note tucked beneath it.

Peter unfolded it.

It read:

“Ring this only when something has been forgotten.”


The Missing Thing

At first, Peter couldn’t think of anything that had been forgotten.

Everything seemed perfectly in place.

The tree was up.
The presents (or what he assumed were presents) sat beneath it.
His father had even managed to find proper Christmas crackers this year.

And yet…

There was a feeling.

A small, quiet gap in things. Like a word on the tip of your tongue that refuses to arrive.

The next morning, Peter walked through Sunbury with the bell in his pocket.

Something was off.

Mrs Dalrymple at the post office wrapped parcels carefully—but didn’t smile.
The baker sold mince pies—but didn’t hum.
Even the church bell rang—but somehow sounded… empty.

Peter stopped by the river.

“What’s missing?” he asked aloud.

The river, as usual, declined to answer.

So Peter took out the bell.

He hesitated.

“Only when something has been forgotten,” he murmured.

He thought of Christmases past—paper chains, laughter, his mother singing, his father pretending not to enjoy it but always laughing at the worst jokes.

And suddenly, he knew.

“It’s the feeling,” he said.

“The proper Christmas feeling.”

And with that, he rang the bell.


What Came Back

The sound was small.

Clear.

And impossibly distant, as though it had travelled a long way to be heard at all.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

The air shifted.

A breeze—not cold, but crisp—moved through the street. The frost on the hedges glittered brighter. Somewhere, someone began to laugh—properly laugh, not just politely.

Mrs Dalrymple looked up from her parcels and smiled for no reason at all.
The baker began humming again, loudly and badly.
Even the river seemed to move with a little more purpose.

Peter felt it most of all.

A warmth—not from the fire, not from his coat—but something deeper, older.

Something remembered.


The Return Journey

On Christmas Eve, Peter returned to the station.

The 4:32 arrived exactly on time.

This time, the carriage was not empty. It was full of people—chatting, laughing, carrying parcels and stories and all the small chaos of Christmas.

But on the same seat…

There was space.

Peter stepped inside and placed the bell back where he had found it.

“Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure to whom.

As he stepped off the train, the guard gave him a curious look.

“Did you leave something behind, lad?”

Peter smiled.

“No,” he said. “I think we got it back.”

The train doors closed.

The 4:32 pulled away.

And just before it vanished into the winter dusk, Peter could have sworn it paused—just slightly—as if satisfied.


Afterwards

That Christmas in Sunbury-on-Thames was remembered for many reasons.

For the cold.

For the snow that finally came in the early hours of Christmas morning.

But most of all, though no one quite said it plainly, it was remembered for feeling right again.

As for Peter…

He still watched the trains.

And every so often, when one lingered just a moment longer than it ought to…

He would nod, very slightly.

Because some things, he knew now, did not run on schedules at all.

 

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