The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 6

When Emi said the train station was preserved in its original form, I didn't think it would mean this. Old cans, plastic bags, cigarette butts, and other debris sit in the dirt surrounding the station. The building itself is an unpainted wooden shack, matching the platform outside it that's missing boards. I cross over the rusted rails as I walk toward it.

"You'd think the city would do a better job of preserving history," Emi says.

I shrug. "Probably had a low budget."

Boards creak underfoot as we ascend the platform. I glance back at the parking lot, empty except for Emi's old Honda, which somehow fits in perfectly.

The silence is slightly unnerving. Anyone could lurk outside—or inside—and no one would be around to help. I peer inside a tiny window at the top of the station's door. The building seems empty, so I try the handle. The door creaks open with surprising ease. Slowly, Emi and I enter.

I'm not surprised that I never heard of this place; there isn't much to see. A map of the old town hangs on the wall over the front desk, which is the only new piece of furniture present in the room. A few old chairs line the wall to the left, adjacent to a fireplace strewn with cobwebs. On the right, a glass display case contains old items, the most common being clocks. In fact, clocks crowd two entire shelves.

"H-hello?" I call out.

Emi nudges me, mouthing the word 'no.' I stroll up to the desk, lifting a brochure lying out.

A door closes, followed by the slow patter of footsteps. It's a pin drop in the quiet, yet each tap on the floor inches my heart rate up. A figure rounds the corner, and I suppress a surprised yelp.

"Good afternoon," a young man, probably no older than thirty, says. "My name is Dustin. How may I help you?" He tugs at the bottom of his white shirt, as if the motion will smooth the wrinkles in it.

"We're just looking around," Emi says with a tense smile. "We just learned about this museum and thought it'd be cool to check it out."

"Ah, I see. Would you like a tour?"

"Uh, perhaps..." Emi trails off. "When's the next one scheduled?"

"Anytime!" Dustin breaks into a full grin across his angular jaw, displaying straight yet yellowed front teeth. At least he brushes his pearly-white molars. "I'm the only one running this place, so if I'm free, a tour can be in store." Dustin leaves the front desk and steps through a side door to enter the museum floor. From several inches above us, he stares down like he's inspecting us. My skin starts to crawl.

"This a map of the city," he says, pointing at the map above the front desk. He turns and walks to the display case in front of a dirty window. Emi and I follow, though we keep a distance. "These are some artifacts found on site when we first turned this place into a museum. By far, clocks are the most prominent."

"Why?" I ask.

"Ask the train conductor." His smile widens as if he's told a joke. Too bad it was so dumb, it didn't make sense. I could use some levity right about now.

I squint at him. "Don't you have any ideas? You're the one renovating this place." Emi's elbow jabs my ribs again.

"No." Dustin aims his smirk at me again. "What do you theorize?"

I shrug, making eye contact with the clocks instead of him. "Maybe they kept malfunctioning for some reason."

The clocks are all shapes, sizes, and styles — one a wristwatch, one a circle on a golden chain, another a cuckoo clock, another for a mantle. None work anymore; their hands are frozen on numbers or roman numerals.