Part 5 — Whistle Stop Charlie
The February sky hung low over Maple Hollow, a dull pewter lid pressing down on the rooftops.
Charlie hadn’t planned on going anywhere near the old rail yard.
But Rusty had a way of deciding their walks, and that morning, the dog led him in a wide arc that ended at the chain-link fence by the depot.
The gate was open.
Inside, men in overalls moved around the black hulk of a steam engine, her sides streaked with fresh paint.
She looked asleep, but not dead—like she was holding her breath for the moment someone would wake her.
Charlie stood at the fence, one gloved hand wrapped around the cold wire. Rusty pressed his head against Charlie’s knee, eyes on the locomotive.
“Morning, Mr. Penrose.”
Charlie turned. It was Frank Dawson, the yard foreman—a thickset man with windburned cheeks and a permanent squint.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Frank said.
“Didn’t expect to be here,” Charlie admitted.
Frank’s gaze followed his toward the engine. “She’s near ready. Memorial Day’ll be her first trip in twenty years.”
Charlie gave a noncommittal nod. His throat felt dry.
“You oughta come aboard before the big day,” Frank said. “Get your feet back on steel.”
Charlie almost laughed. “That’s a long way from here to there.”
Frank grinned. “You got two months to take the walk.” He jerked his head toward the open cab. “Want to look?”
Charlie hesitated. Rusty wagged once, as if voting yes.
The steps were steeper than he remembered. His knees complained, but the metal under his boots had the same quiet give, the same faint vibration he used to feel in his bones.
The cab smelled of oil, soot, and old iron—scents that lodged in the back of his throat like a forgotten song.
Charlie ran his hand along the edge of the brass controls. The metal was cold, but it seemed to hum faintly, as if the engine recognized him.
“You know,” Frank said behind him, “Evan McCrae’s been hanging around here. Kid’s crazy about trains.”
Charlie’s hand stilled on the throttle.
Frank went on, oblivious. “He said something about wanting to ride with you. Didn’t figure you two knew each other.”
Charlie didn’t answer.
Rusty’s nails clicked on the cab floor as he stepped closer, looking up at Charlie with calm, steady eyes.
For a moment, Charlie could almost see another set of eyes—Daniel McCrae’s—meeting his through the cab window that last morning. The memory flared bright and sharp, and Charlie had to close his own.
“Think about it,” Frank said, clapping him on the shoulder. “There’s folks in this town who’d like to see you take one more run.”
When Charlie climbed back down, his legs felt heavier than when he’d gone up.
But in his coat pocket, his hand found the shape of something small and cold—the whistle Evan had slipped there without a word that morning.
He hadn’t meant to keep it.
Now, it seemed to be keeping him.
Part 6 — Whistle Stop Charlie
The next morning, Charlie found Evan already on the platform, sitting cross-legged on the bench with Rusty’s head in his lap.
The boy was rubbing the dog’s ears, talking in a low voice as though telling him a secret.
Charlie stepped closer. “What are you two conspiring about?”
Evan looked up, a quick smile flashing before it faded. “Just telling him about my dad. How he used to make me toy trains out of scrap wood.”
Rusty sighed contentedly, as if the story soothed him.
Charlie sat on the other end of the bench. The cold wood creaked under his weight. “Your father had good hands.”
Evan’s brow furrowed. “You remember him?”
Charlie nodded. “Not every passenger, no. But some. He had a way about him—like he was already thinking three steps ahead of where he was going.”
Evan’s gaze dropped to his mittened hands. “He was supposed to be home early that day.”
The air tightened between them. Charlie kept his eyes on the rails, their silver lines fading into the horizon. “I remember the weather,” he said softly. “Fog thick enough to drink. And a truck stalled on the crossing two miles out.”
Evan didn’t move.
Charlie’s voice dropped. “I hit the brakes as soon as I saw it. But steel doesn’t stop like rubber.”
Rusty shifted, laying a paw across Evan’s boot.
The boy’s voice was very small. “Mom told me it was quick.”
Charlie closed his eyes. “Quicker than it should have been. But yes.”
They sat in silence for a long time, the only sound the distant caw of a crow.
When Evan finally looked up, his eyes were wet but steady. “If you could go back…”
Charlie didn’t let him finish. “Every man alive wishes for one track switch in his life. The one that would send him down a different line. But wishing doesn’t change the rails under you.”
Evan took the whistle from his pocket. He held it out without a word.
Charlie hesitated, then wrapped his hand around it. The brass was warm from the boy’s palm.
Evan met his gaze. “Memorial Day. You and me. And Rusty.”
Charlie almost said no. The word was ready, perched on his tongue. But Rusty thumped his tail against the bench, looking at Charlie as if waiting for him to keep up.
Instead, Charlie said, “We’ll see.”
It wasn’t a promise.
But it wasn’t the end, either.