The train was late today and it was always early. Why was it late? The train was an apparatchik. The train always arrived at Chestnut Hill station at precisely 08:03am and departed five minutes later at 08:08am. It had arrived thirty-four seconds late. That meant they were running thirty-four seconds late. She stepped on first; followed by Amara and Annora Willowrider, then Margo Lilygrow, and finally Vulwin Heartgust and his obnoxiously large briefcase that took up a whole seat. She reached her compartment thirty-four seconds late. This was a problem.

They reached Hollyhead station thirty-four seconds late where Valentine should then get on thirty-four seconds late. There had to be a problem in the Magisterium. Why else would the train run late? It had to be faulty wiring or plain incompetence but that has never happened before in all the years she had been alive. Surely her father would know? The phone rang seven times. No answer.

Peculiar.

It was cold today. Not cold enough for frost or snow but cold enough that the windows were fogged up with condensation from the warm atmosphere inside the empty compartment. She sat down on her usual seat, perplexed already by the day she was having. Nothing made sense. Her mother had still been peacefully asleep when she had awoken, her father's shift hadn't started yet he didn't pick up the phone or return her call, and the train was- wait...

It was Summer, August. It's always warm in Summer; she was so cold she wore a fur-lined coat. Why was it so bitingly cold in mid-Summer? Nothing made sense about this, nothing at all.

A quick glance out of the clouded compartment window told her that Valentine's mother and younger sister were nowhere to be seen. That's not correct. They always waited with her to see her off. There was no sign of them, no hint that they'd been there at all. Why was Thalia Flameheart boarding first? Why was Thalia boarding at all? It's Monday, she only catches this train on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Even then she boards last and certainly not before Valentine. Valentine did not get on thirty-four seconds late. She got on forty-two seconds late. Even Malia Hedgebloom got on before Valentine. No one even likes Malia Hedgebloom, not even Valentine.

“The train was late.” A moment of silence followed. Valentine had paused midway through biting her apple. She continued biting until she had a chunk in her mouth and proceeded to chew, all while in complete silence. Finally, she swallowed the bite and spoke, “Tori, the train was here on time. Eight-oh-three for you and eight-eleven for me, just like it always is.” She was wrong. Why did she always have to be wrong? And Tori? Valentine knew she preferred Astoria.

“No, it arrived thirty-four seconds later than usual; that doesn't happen. It always arrives exactly on time and on time is precisely three minutes past eight. The train was late.”

Valentine looked nice today, she always did. She was 5'7”; she was two inches taller than Astoria. Her honey brown curls that typically gently cascaded down one shoulder and her back were tied back in an intricate up-do with two strands of equal length and medium width left framing her face. Her eyes were a creamy dark brown, like chocolate. Similar to chocolate they were comforting and welcoming. They always had a sort of glint in the corner, like she was some kind of saint or goddess of mischief and passion. Her tan face bore no marks or spots except a small beauty mark below the corner of her right eye but often this was hidden by her bottom lashes. Her doe eyes were lined by a simple, black wing and the rest of her makeup looked as natural and effortless as ever. Under her beige, oversized waterfall duster coat she wore the uniform to an impossibly high standard; no one could say she looked untidy or had even a string out of place. The uniform consisted of a plain, white, long-sleeved blouse, a royal blue checked tie, and a grey cotton sweater vest. The bottom was a plain, grey, pleated skirt that barely reached the knee and knee-high white socks with any black shoes Valentine could find that fit her aesthetic. She didn't just look nice, she looked phenomenal. Despite her confusion her tone was as silvery and slightly croaky as always. She truly was the single constant of today.

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“Thirty-four seconds... damn,” commented Valentine with a look of exaggerated excitement adorning her gentle features, “better start making the conspiracy theory blog, huh? Ooh, I could run a storytime blog and we could collab! My best friend is clinically insane: STORYTIME!”

“Nobody asked for you to bellow your career path aloud at eight-twenty AM.”

“Nobody asked for you to record specific train times like a sad little introvert and yet here we are, dear friend.” crossing her legs and leaning back, Valentine smirked proudly at her own comment. In all fairness, it was surprisingly witty for Valentine. She had never really been the quickest of people. She was, however, a vocal being, as opposed to a physical being. She did not fully grasp the concept of subtlety nor did she need to. Her words (which solemn voiced her forward opinions) were enough. She was ever the middle-man, the devil's advocate, and a peacekeeper. Valentine would claim her happy place was not a location, but a situation instead: her and Astoria sat in an comfortable artisan cafe, sipping warm drinks from cute, small, china cups while a slow indie song is played softly through the speakers – all on a cool, autumn afternoon. She was compassionate and conscientious and all that Astoria could ever envy. Essentially, they fit together like two pieces of completely different puzzles, and yet, by some miracle of the stars aligning, they slotted together perfectly and looked as proper as every other piece.

Astoria had zoned out. As her thoughts calmed, she could hear Valentine speaking about her morning so far.

“It might've been the milk, actually. I'm not sure when the milk expired, that didn't matter to me, I was desperately craving that sweet, sweet honey and almond crunch.”

None of that sentence made sense out of context. That was common, however. Astoria let out a sort of half laugh through her nose as she shook her head and smiled at Valentine's likely absurd tale. Valentine noticed the switch from Astoria's cool demeanour to a more cheery one and beamed at her work.

“Hey,” she chuckled, “I'm being serious! I have never loved anything more than I love honey and almond clusters; I was devastated.”

The cool demeanour was a lie. Astoria was still uneasy. She wasn't a huge fan of change – at least not in her own life. She did not care for reaching out to others but, if approached by a desperate man, would be willing to aid in any way possible; she picked that trait up from Valentine. Unlike Valentine, however, she believed that help was earned, not simply given. Those who wanted change could do it themselves; it isn't as though help was in short supply these days what with the Magisterium's new positivity initiatives. If an individual had truly tried all other options and still struggled to change, then Astoria could validate help. This attitude had often been misunderstood as snobbish and just plain lazy. On the contrary, it was due to Astoria's habit of fully immersing herself in a project or task; why waste energy on someone who still has other places to go? Today, though, she felt a twang of empathy in her heart for people like Malia and Vulwin who others would tease relentlessly. The two weren't without friends so Astoria knew not why she had such an unnecessary emotion deep down inside her but she didn't have the time to worry about anything else given the conundrum at hand.

Nothing felt right. Time seemed to be passing by slower as though they had entered another universe. What time was it? Astoria pulled up her right wrist to check her brown, leather watch. Eight-twenty-one. That definitely wasn't correct. She leaned forward to pull out the phone of Valentine, who sat opposite her and kept her phone in her top pocket like a naïve idiot who didn't understand the mere concept of theft.

“Whoa, what're you doing?” Valentine protested, leaning away even after the phone was taken. Astoria didn't reply, only pressed down on the home button.

Eight-twenty-one.

The device was snatched back from her loose grip by a distressed Valentine. She started speaking, presumably lecturing Astoria on how it's impolite to take other people's possessions without warning. That didn't matter.

This made no sense. They should've arrived at Pondacre two minutes ago. Two whole minutes. That wasn't thirty-four seconds. That was at least one-hundred and twenty seconds. That was the last straw.

Astoria swiftly turned to face the window, throwing one leg upon the seat as she did so. She needed to know where they were. She needed to know why the train was late. Condensation was wiped from the window with her cotton sleeve in three rapid swipes across a span of around forty centimetres. Left, right, left.

“ASTORIA, ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?” Valentine's sudden and unnatural burst of anger left her stunned but what left her breathing heavily and quickly was not her placid friend's outburst, but what she saw outside of the train window.

“Why has the train stopped moving?"