The train hissed. It cut the silence.

"Is it broken?"

Margaret looked up. The conductor stood there. He held a ledger. It was thick. It was brown.

"It is not broken," she said. Her voice was low. It was rough.

"Then why is it stopped?"

"Because I said so."

He frowned. He looked at the tracks. The rails were straight. They shone in the sun.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Margaret Holloway," she said.

"I know the name. You are the warden."

"I was the warden," she said.

"Past tense. That is a lie."

"Time is a lie," she said. "Look at the clock."

The clock on the wall was still. The hands were frozen. They pointed to four. It was four o'clock. It had been four o'clock for an hour.

The conductor stepped back. He touched his hat. He looked afraid.

"We have to move," he whispered. "The army is coming."

"Let them come," Margaret said. "The train stays."

The train was a beast. It was old. It was rusted. The paint peeled off in flakes. It looked like skin dying. It was their home. It was their cage.

Outside, the wind blew. It was cold. It smelled of coal. It smelled of smoke. It smelled of blood.

Margaret sat down. She held a cup of tea. The steam rose. It curled in the air. It vanished.

"You cannot stop them," the conductor said. His name was Thomas. He was young. He was thin. He had eyes like a mouse.

"Watch me," she said.

He looked at her. He saw her face. It was hard. It was stone.

"I saw the soldiers," Thomas said. "They were shouting. They had guns. They have orders."

"Orders are paper," Margaret said. "Paper burns."

Thomas shook his head. "They do not care about paper. They care about power."

"Power is a ghost," she said. "It has no weight."

"But it can kill," Thomas said.

"Yes," she said. "It can kill. But it cannot kill time."

The train shuddered. A sound came from the engine. It was a groan. It was a cry. It was pain.

"The boiler is hot," Thomas said. "Too hot. It will explode."

"Let it explode," Margaret said. "If it explodes, we are free."

Thomas looked at her. He saw madness. Or maybe he saw truth.

"I am afraid," he said.

"Good," Margaret said. "Fear is honest."

The door opened. A woman entered. Her name was Eleanor. She carried a basket. It was full of bread. The bread was black. It was hard. It was life.

"Is it true?" Eleanor asked. She did not look at Margaret. She looked at the floor.

"True?" Margaret asked.

"That you stopped the train."

"I stopped the time," Margaret said.

Eleanor set the basket down. The bread clattered. It was a loud sound. It echoed.

"We are starving," Eleanor said. "The bread is gone. The water is gone. We are hungry."

"Then you are awake," Margaret said.

"I am dying," Eleanor said.

"Death is a door," Margaret said. "It opens both ways."

Eleanor looked at her. Her eyes were wet. They were bright.

"Will it stop?" Eleanor asked.

"Nothing stops," Margaret said. "We just keep moving. Or we stop moving. That is the choice."

Thomas stepped forward. "The soldiers are at the front. I can see them. They are climbing over the cars."

Margaret stood up. She was tall. She was straight. She was a pillar.

"Let them climb," she said.

"Margaret, no," Thomas said. "They will shoot. They will kill us. They will burn the train. They will burn us."

"Then we burn with the train," Margaret said.

"It is not our fire," Thomas said. "It is their fire. We must not let them take it."

Margaret looked at the window. The glass was dirty. It was cracked. A spider web sat in the corner. It was a net. It was a trap.

"Who owns the fire?" she asked.

"Whoever lights it," Thomas said.

"Then let them light it," she said. "But they will not own it. Fire does not belong to men."

Eleanor sat down. She held a piece of bread. She broke it. It crumbled. It fell to the floor.

"I remember the war," Eleanor said. "I was a nurse. I saw the men. They were not monsters. They were men. They were afraid. They were young."

"Are they still men?" Margaret asked.

"Yes," Eleanor said. "They are still men. That is the horror. They are men who do evil. And they call it duty."

"Duty," Margaret said. She spat the word. It landed on the seat.

"Duty is a chain," she said. "It binds the hand. It binds the mind. It kills the soul."

Thomas looked at the door. It was closing. He was scared. His hands were shaking.

"I want to go home," Thomas said. "I want to see my mother. I want to sleep in a bed. I want to eat hot food. I want to live."

"We are all of us wanting to live," Margaret said.

"Then let us live," Thomas said. "Let them pass. Let the train move. We can hide. We can run. We can survive."

"Survival is a lie," Margaret said.

"It is the truth," Thomas said. "It is the only truth."

"Is it?" Margaret asked. "If you survive by kneeling, are you alive?"

Thomas did not answer. He looked at his shoes. His laces were tied. They were tight.

Eleanor spoke again. "The community is dying. The bonds are breaking. We are alone. We are islands."

"We are a chain," Margaret said. "A chain of steel. It is strong. It is hard. But it is cold."

"Can it be warm?" Eleanor asked.

"Only if it holds," Margaret said. "Only if it holds."

The sound outside grew louder. It was a thud. It was a bang. It was a hit.

"They are at the engine," Thomas said. "I hear the metal bending."

Margaret walked to the window. She looked out. She saw the soldiers. They were in gray. They were in black. They had hats. They had rifles. They had faces.

One face was young. It was pale. It was wet with sweat. It was full of fear.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

He raised his gun.

She raised her hand.

She did not wave. She did not beg. She held it up. It was open. It was empty. It was a cup. It was a bowl.

The soldier lowered his gun. He looked confused. He looked lost.

"Go," Margaret said. She did not shout. She did not scream. She spoke. It was a whisper. It carried.

The soldier stepped back. He looked at his comrades. They were shouting. They were pushing. They were angry.

But the soldier did not move. He stood still. He was frozen.

"Go," Margaret said again.

The soldier turned. He walked away. He walked fast. He ran.

The other soldiers stopped. They looked at him. They looked at Margaret.

Thomas watched. His mouth was open. He could not breathe.

Eleanor watched. Her hand was on her chest. She felt her heart. It beat. It thumped. It was a drum.

"What did you do?" Thomas asked.

"I showed them," Margaret said. "I showed them their own face."

"That is not magic," Thomas said.

"No," Margaret said. "It is mirror."

The train shook again. It was violent. It was rough.

"The engine is breaking," Thomas said. "It is coming apart."

"Let it break," Margaret said.

"We will die," Thomas said.

"Maybe," Margaret said.

"I do not want to die," Thomas said. He was crying. Tears ran down his face. They were hot. They were salt.

"Then do not die," Margaret said. "Live."

"How?" Thomas asked.

"By letting go," Margaret said.

"Letting go of what?"

"Of the train. Of the duty. Of the fear. Of the self."

Thomas looked at her. He saw the answer. He saw the cost.

"I cannot," he said.

"You can," Margaret said. "You must."

Eleanor stood up. She walked to Margaret. She held her hand. It was cold. It was dry.

"Together," Eleanor said.

"Together," Margaret said.

The sound outside was a roar. It was a scream. It was a beast.

The door burst open.

Soldiers entered. They were many. They were loud. They were angry.

They had guns. They had knives. They had hate.

"Get out," the lead soldier shouted. His voice was high. It was sharp.

Margaret did not move. She sat in her seat. She held her cup.

"Get out," the soldier shouted again.

"No," Margaret said.

He stepped forward. He raised his gun. He aimed it.

Thomas stood up. He stepped in front of Margaret. He held his hands up.

"Please," Thomas said. "Please. We are not enemies."

The soldier looked at Thomas. He looked at Margaret.

"Move," the soldier said.

"I will not move," Margaret said.

The soldier pulled the trigger.

A sound. A crack. A pop.

A hole in the wall. Dust fell. Smoke rose.

Thomas fell. He fell back. He hit the floor. He did not get up.

Margaret looked at him. She saw the blood. It was red. It was fresh. It was life.

She looked at the soldier. The soldier was shaking. His hand was trembling. His eyes were wide.

"He is not a monster," Margaret said. "He is a child."

The soldier lowered his gun. He looked at his hand. He looked at the floor.

"I had to," he whispered.

"No," Margaret said. "You did not."

The other soldiers moved in. They surrounded the car. They pointed their guns.

"Move," they shouted.

Margaret looked at Eleanor. Eleanor looked at Margaret.

They nodded.

They did not fight. They did not run.

They closed their eyes.

They opened their mouths.

They sang.

It was a song. It was old. It was simple. It was true.

The soldiers stopped. They lowered their guns. They listened.

The song filled the train. It filled the air. It filled the hearts.

It was not a weapon. It was a bridge.

The lead soldier walked forward. He walked slowly. He walked carefully.

He stood before Margaret.

He took his hat off. He held it to his chest.

"I am sorry," he said.

"I know," Margaret said.

"Go," he said. "Take the train. Go."

Margaret looked at Thomas. He was still. He was quiet.

She looked at Eleanor. Eleanor nodded.

Margaret stood up. She walked to the door. She walked out.

Eleanor followed.

The soldiers did not follow. They stood still. They watched. They were witnesses.

The train was there. It was broken. It was rusted. It was dead.

But it was theirs.

Margaret walked away. She walked into the field. The grass was tall. It was green. It was wild.

She did not look back.

She did not run.

She walked.

The wind blew. It was cold. It was sharp.

She felt it on her face. She felt it in her lungs.

She was free.

She was alone.

She was alive.

The train was behind her. It was a shadow. It was a memory.

It was gone.

She walked on.

The sun was setting. The sky was red. The sky was black.

The stars came out. They were bright. They were cold.

She walked under them.

She walked into the night.

She walked into the dark.

She walked into the unknown.

She walked into the end.

And it was enough.

It was all she had.

It was all they had.

It was life.