The Cedar Chest

PART 3 - FINAL

Thirty years later, the rain against the window of the house in York sounded exactly like the rain against the windows of the 4:12 to Darlington.

Leo, now forty-six, stood in the attic amidst the wreckage of a life being packed into boxes. Sarah was downstairs, directing the movers with the same effortless authority she’d had since she was seventeen. They were moving to a smaller place, a "low-profile" cottage by the coast.

"Leo? Did you find the linens?" Sarah’s voice floated up the stairs.

"Almost," Leo called back.

He was kneeling in front of an old cedar chest that had belonged to his grandmother. He lifted the heavy lid, and the scent—peppermint and aged wood—hit him like a physical blow. It was the smell of the train carriage.

He reached into the corner of the chest and pulled out a small, protective plastic sleeve. Inside sat the pristine handkerchief, the one he had kept in a drawer for three decades. The initials L.S. were still a vibrant, stubborn midnight blue. He ran his thumb over the accidental knot in the 'S' and felt a shiver trace the line of his spine.

Beside it lay a second piece of fabric, loose and unprotected.

He picked it up. This was the one the old man had dropped. It was paper-thin now, the silk so worn it felt like a dried leaf. The yellowing had turned to a deep amber, and the 'L' was nearly gone, worn away by decades of being tucked into pockets and pressed against crying eyes.

He laid the two side-by-side on his palm. The New and the Old. The Beginning and the End.

"Leo?" Sarah appeared in the attic doorway, wiping dust from her forehead. She looked at the two scraps of silk in his hand and softened. "Oh. You still have those."

"I never knew how to get rid of them," Leo said, his voice a bit thicker than he intended.

Sarah sat on the floor beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I remember when you came home that night. You looked like you’d seen a ghost. You wouldn't stop talking about that man on the train."

"I thought he was a ghost," Leo whispered. "Or a lunatic. For years, I looked for him. I checked every face on every commute. I thought I had to find him to ask him how it ends."

"And now?"

Leo looked at his own hand. He noticed the way his skin was starting to thin, the way a few liver spots were beginning to pepper his knuckles. He noticed the way he held his hand—slightly curved, fingers folded in a way that felt eerily familiar.

"Now I realize he didn't come back to tell me how it ends," Leo said. He folded the old, frayed handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket—the breast pocket, right over his heart. "He came back to tell me it was okay to let it happen."

He stood up, his right hip giving a sharp, predictable protest. He winced, then smiled.

"You okay?" Sarah asked, reaching out to steady him.

"Yeah," Leo said, looking at the door. He could almost see the fog of the Darlington platform waiting for him somewhere in the distance, ten or fifteen years away. "Just the old football injury. It’s a bit damp today."

He closed the cedar chest. He wasn't afraid of the 4:12 anymore. He understood now that he wasn't just a passenger; he was the thread, and the needle was finally starting to pull the stitch tight.

"Come on," he said, taking Sarah’s hand. "The middle chapters are getting really good."