Once Aldous has made up her mind to leave the train at the next stop, it seems to be a long time in coming. They plunge into a tunnel, or so she assumes; but when the train brakes, she understands that the darkness is open and infinite. The platform floats in a pool of black.
But a decision is a decision. Aldous steps out into the glow of an old lamp, before a bench and a sign that just says 12.
There’s a door. As Aldous walks toward it, a moth pings feebly off the globe one more time, and falls.
Swedes like to pretend the ghost train lives in Kymlinge, but you can see it anywhere: at Eureka, at Haxo, rushing past Bull and Bush and its moldering stacks of secrets. Its name is Silverpilen, and it’s both easy and impossible to catch. You just can’t board if you know what it is.
Aldous, unromantically, had her face in a paper when she embarked. She’s not sure how long she’s been riding it now; her watch dial spins, and she never hungers. She’d ask the conductor, but if it’s his voice on the intercom, she doesn’t want to see his mouth.
I had a rally day today! According to the merit badges, a rally day is 5k, and I wrote 5004 words today, which makes up for the two days I skipped. w00t! Technically speaking, 454 of those words were written after midnight, but I didn't get up until 1:30 pm, so it's within 12 hours, and I'm counting it. Also, this is the highest word count I've ever gotten in a NaNo. Whee!
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