Martha got off the night train at a station she knew only from childhood stories. The fog hung low, entering the crevices of the stairs, and the stalls were long since closed. She wanted to catch the last bus to the village, but the board gave a laconic cancellation. She was left alone with the rumbling of the radiators and the smell of old grease wafting over the platforms. The station seemed to breathe quietly, as if gathering strength before some unexpected move. A number was falling off on the clock hanging above the hall, but the hands moved evenly, as if nothing was playing. The speakers whirred, although the lady at the window claimed they had been disconnected for years. "Attention, passengers on the train to Birchwood," said a metallic voice, and Martha raised her head abruptly. The line to Birchwood had closed a decade ago, and the timetable had long since been taken off the wall. The phone showed no calls, only the silent screen reflected her own face. Another sentence came from the loudspeaker, hushed as a whisper: "Martha, get your ticket ready." A match crackled in her jacket pocket, though she had neither flint nor matches with her. On the wall hung a photograph of the former stationmaster with a brass plaque and a faded signature. Under the glass, in the corner, stuck a note in a child's handwriting: "Martha, key in locker 17." Martha felt her stomach tighten into a knot, but she moved to the lockers. The key lay in a paper envelope with her name on it, soaked with an old brown seal. The night watchman, Mr Cuckoo, slipped out of the shadows and grunted, feigning indifferent surprise. She couldn't remember ever mentioning this grandmother to anyone, especially here, so far from home. "No one uses caches unless they're waiting for a letter from a very long time ago." He said this half-jokingly, but his gaze was serious, as if checking to see if he understood the allusion. "Did you know my grandmother?" she asked, because the name should not sound familiar here. "She used to drive the mail wagon before they closed the line," he muttered, indicating the creaking gate to the technical corridor. The clocks chimed midnight and the lamps above the lockers blinked, laying a luminous arrow towards the metal door. The light flicked once more and a narrow shadow ran across the floor, like the movement of a mouse in a clock. The lock gave way after the first turn of the key, and the air smelled of oil, dust and lavender. Inside stood maps, punctuated telegrams and an envelope with the date 1968 clearly addressed to her. Something rolled down the tracks, although no night train had passed this way for years. The voice returned, this time without the noise: "Special train number zero entering track one. Marta to the letter car." Mr Kukuła squeezed her shoulder as the platform lit up in the window and someone pressed the handle. Behind the corridor door, the footsteps of two people sounded, at an even steady pace, as if they were marching according to an old order.