Heart of words on the lower back

Ruth from the tea kiosk brings you a cup with the lid already off because she knows you won't wait for it to cool. She asks what you think the order means, if it is an order at all. You tell her it probably started with Dream because that's where the choir stood, and Strength ended up at the bottom because nobody wanted to be the last word on the wall. She laughs and says you always have an answer for things nobody asked. Out on the platform the wind brings the smell of wet coal dust and somebody's chips.

At ten past seven a woman with a folded umbrella comes to the lost property hatch and describes a green holdall she left on the 4.40. You write it into the ledger in capitals, then find yourself adding a note in the margin: returned to owner, Carlisle platform two, under the heart. It isn't policy. It is just the sort of thing you would want someone to do for you if what you had lost was harder to replace than a bag.

When the train finally pulls in, you take the poster down, flatten it under your forearm and carry it back to the office. The curve of the heart is still faintly stamped on the wall where the damp never reached. You pin it above the kettle instead. It seems the sort of place where a person might need to read Believe before they head back out.