Chapter 2: Of Trains, Towns, and Time - Part 3

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.

Suddenly, the young raccoon leapt gracefully from the center of the plaza, her movements precise, calculated. She wove through the audience with fluid elegance, her long tail spinning through the air as if it were an extension of her body, adding a weightless beauty to each step. The crowd followed her with a mix of fascination and excitement. And then, without warning, she stopped—right in front of me.

For a moment, the air seemed to shift, grow heavier. Our eyes met, and I felt exposed under her gaze, as if she was seeing something hidden deep inside me. She moved closer, gliding towards me with an almost surreal smoothness, and without hesitation, her fingers brushed against my face. They drifted dangerously close to my bindi, and instinctively, I pulled back.

She smiled. A smile both mysterious and certain. Without breaking eye contact, she leaned in close and whispered into my ear.

“So, it’s you…”

A shiver ran down my spine.

“You… you called me…” I tried to say, my voice weaker than I intended. But the raccoon said nothing more, didn’t even look at me again. As if we no longer existed for her, she twirled away, returning to her dance with a lightness that seemed to defy gravity. She glided through the crowd, touching hands with a strange familiarity, but without pause.

Then, in a movement almost beyond belief, she jumped.

It wasn’t just a leap. Her body soared through the air with such grace that, for a moment, it seemed as though the wind itself was carrying her. The arc of her jump was perfect, as if she was tracing a line across the sky, aiming straight for the moon.

The lamps flickered, their glow reflecting off her silhouette, and for a second, it was hard to tell whether she was dancing beneath the moon or if the moon itself was responding to her movements, as if they were part of the same rhythm.

Then, gently, she descended, landing as gracefully as she had leapt, as though gravity had never been a challenge.

The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, shouting with delight. The gas lamps flickered again, accompanying the ovation as if they too were synchronized with the people's joy.

Mi Fan was clapping and cheering as well, her tail thumping against the ground with an excitement she rarely showed. I had never seen her so happy, so swept up in a moment.

Meanwhile, I tried to collect myself. I felt a slight tremble in my hands as I slowly brought them to my face, running my fingers over my cheeks. The soft fur beneath my fingertips gave me a fleeting sense of reality. Yes, I was still me. We were still here, in this body, in this place.

And as if she had never been there—or as if a spell had been broken—the raccoon simply clapped along with the crowd and vanished before us. There was no more ovation. The townspeople, who moments ago had seemed so captivated, now moved about calmly, some chatting about the day's trivialities, others smiling at each other, as if nothing we’d just witnessed had happened.

Mi Fan, just as naturally, took my hand again, no problem at all. I looked at her, searching for any sign of confusion, but she merely twitched her ears, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened. Or maybe, to her, nothing unusual had happened at all. Perhaps we were the only ones stranded in this strangeness.

“So, what did you think of the show?” I asked, still trying to piece myself together. “That raccoon had some moves… like Paula Abdul in Straight Up.”

Mi Fan just yawned.

We found ourselves relatively alone in the plaza now. The gas lamps continued to glow softly, their flickering light giving the place a strange, dreamlike quality, as if the night itself was deeper than it seemed. In the center of the plaza, something I hadn’t noticed before—distracted by the raccoon’s performance—caught my eye. A commemorative plaque stood there, accompanied by a metal bust.

We can still be surprised when a woman dances, apparently.

As I approached the bust, I felt my heart stop for a moment. Mi Fan tightened her grip on my hand, as if sensing that something wasn’t right, though she didn’t fully understand what. The air around the monument felt heavier, more oppressive.

There it was—a figure immortalized in metal, captured in a serene pose: Lassi Mahayan, matron of the Mahayan family. The very woman who had driven the railway tracks that cut through the veins of the world,

The same woman who had treated Shery mercilessly.

The one I, with all my burdens, could never stop calling… Mother.

“She’s ugly,” Mi Fan said with absolute sincerity, pulling a smile from me.

I couldn’t help but laugh. We knew what she meant. This statue didn’t do her justice. The cold metal couldn’t capture the true power she radiated in life. Her snow-white fur, her long flowing hair, the perfectly placed bindi, and her icy gaze… none of that was here. Instead, this representation showed her as a kindly older woman, with a smile that almost seemed warm.

But the real Lassi Mahayan? She had been far from warm.