Chapter 2: Of Trains, Towns, and Time - Part 2

When I first started looking at maps to find the place calling to me, I had found Hemlock Ridge. The scant information I uncovered about the town didn’t say much. Just a forgotten note in the Mahayan family archives: this site, far from civilization, had once been used as a repair yard for the old transcontinental trains.

In those days, mechanics worked around the clock, breathing life back into the titans of steel that crossed the oceans, machines that connected continents at the expense of the very earth they traversed.

It was hidden deliberately, kept out of sight so that the curious wouldn’t see what was being done here. The old Mahayan technology was a closely guarded secret, power that not everyone should know. We kept the trains running, far from the eyes of the world.

But that was before. Now, those machines were gone. And yet, seeing the old family symbol painted on one of the houses shook me. The memories came back unbidden.

We had left part of our history here, in this remote corner, and though I tried not to think about it, the past never truly stays silent.

I swallowed again, feeling a pang in my chest. This place, once home to the trains, now felt like a shadow, an echo of what it had been. But the old Mahayan family symbol was still there, as if time had forgotten to erase it.

As we got closer to the plaza, I felt my grip on the little tigress's hand tighten. The plaza, as I looked at it closely, wasn’t really a plaza at all. It was the resting place of an old circular railway turntable, designed so the trains could be easily rotated between a series of tracks. On the sides, more train tracks sprawled out in disorganized lines, like scars in the ground, connecting to enormous depots that towered alongside the rails, imposing and silent.

“Heh... like Thomas the Tank Engine,” I muttered, more to relieve the pressure in my chest than as a real comment. I didn’t expect a response from Mi Fan, but sometimes we speak just to remind ourselves that we’re still here..

The music filling the air pulled me out of the strange emotional state I’d fallen into since entering the town. Before us, a young raccoon, no older than twenty-five, moved with hypnotic grace, following the rhythm of her own voice. The crowd watching her seemed completely captivated, as if her movements bound them just as tightly as the shackles she wore on her hands and feet.

Her attire was equally intriguing: she wore a long traditional dancer’s gown from Mauria, translucent at the legs, just barely hinting at her fur. A black top contrasted with the sparkle of a gold necklace (though upon closer look, you could tell it was costume jewelry), and a bindi glittered on her forehead, shining under the gaslights. Her performance teetered on the edge of sensuality without ever crossing into something inappropriate. She knew how to keep the audience on that edge—we could see it, and they felt it too.

For a moment, I noticed that Mi Fan had let go of my hand. Before I could say anything, she was already clapping enthusiastically, completely immersed in the show.

I looked at the crowd, a mix of townspeople: children, young adults, and the elderly, all smiling, completely absorbed in the performance. It was an almost idyllic image, like something out of a place untouched by time for decades. Their faces reflected pure joy, as if time didn’t exist, as if nothing else mattered in that moment.

Maybe, I thought, we didn’t need to keep our guard up so much. Sure, the old Mahayan company symbol on the houses had stirred memories I preferred to forget, but I was the one in charge now. I controlled the present, and I wasn’t going to let the past torment me. There were too many things to learn from this place, too many unanswered questions.

With a slight smile, I stepped closer to the little tigress, and seeing her eyes sparkle with excitement, I too began to clap. Sometimes, it’s good to let ourselves be swept up in the moment.

"Time is a river that won’t return,

Cycles of light begin to burn,

The end of days is drawing near,

Between laughter and applause, the world will disappear."

"Hours stretch thin, minutes pass by,

The wheel turns without a glance behind.

Who will count the final hours,

When the sun, at last, forgets to shine?"

The lyrics didn’t quite fit the festive atmosphere of the music, yet something about her words pierced through me. We knew it was impossible. She didn’t know me. She couldn’t have been singing to me. And yet, for a brief moment, it felt like she was—like her eyes, her voice, were searching for me among the crowd.