Owl in a teacup on the upper arm

You left your teacup behind on Tuesday, the blue one with the owl in it, and I have kept it on the shelf above the urn since. Ada says I should post it on, but the parcel would cost more than the cup is worth, and besides, the owl has been staring at me all week over her spectacles as though she knows something I don't. Mr Pryce from the signal box says she is the only customer he has ever trusted with a secret.

The 4.12 was late again, so the platform was thick with steam and wet coats when you came in asking for a pot of Assam with no milk. You sat by the window and watched the engines shunt in the yard for an hour without once touching your scone. I did not ask what you were waiting for. Some people come to a station to leave and some come to pretend they are leaving, and you had the look of someone who had already bought the ticket and could not bring herself to board.

When the last train pulled out you were still sitting there, and the cup was empty except for the owl painted at the bottom, grinning up through a thin ring of tea. I found it when I wiped the tables. I have been thinking since about how she looked so wise and so unbothered, sitting in her saucer while the whole world went steaming past.

If you want the cup back, come to the refreshment room any morning before seven. I will keep the kettle on, and the owl will keep her opinions to herself.

Yours, with milk, Margaret Tully