Morning dawns on a gray seaside and cool winds. There are no footsteps on the sand.

Gray skies. Gray waters. Gray sunlight. The kind of gray that seeps its way into your memory. The kind that is brought by a heavy rain, the kind that stains, the kind that cannot be erased.

A curious railroad leading on through the barren landscape is unveiled by the misty tendrils of fog, or mist, maybe both, and its reaching arms stretch forward, backward, skyward, for evermore.

An aching toll echoes through the empty chambers of the city. Inside the orphanage, two pairs of small feet with two pairs of small shoes pitter and patter like raindrops, once there, once here, once gone. Just like that.

The feet find their way out of the cold stone building, the prison walls, the gate draped with layers of silky web. They find their way to the beach, and the tears find their way to his eyes.

The child is Christopher.

He has forgotten his last name.

Or rather, his name has long forgotten him.

For in that place of stormy seas and relentless winds, it only takes time, then more time, for things to be forgotten. Washed away, blown away, gone.

He steps into the bitter waves and foam washes over his feet, now bare. He tastes salt in the wind, salt in the sea, salt from his tears, maybe none. Or maybe all.

He closes his eyes shut and squeezes them so hard he feels weightless, floating, and when he opens them again he is greeted by the sight of a curious wagon, a cart, a wooden train, he does not know. A gray sail twitches in the breeze. It looks as if it is built from a child’s toys, ageless and colorless and hidden from the rest of the world.

He notices the tinkling coming from the cart, and sounds of loosened, aged springs and wires.

Even more curious—“Good morning.” He has almost forgotten to see the old man sitting at the very front of the cart, steering it, although there is nowhere else to go besides the straight line of oblivion ahead.

“Where are you going?” Christopher asks.

“To better places,” the old man says.

Both of them fall silent for a moment, then the old man says, “There are places without sorrow, you know.”

This seems to catch Christopher’s attention as he goes on: “Places without orphanages, you know.”

“Where?” Christopher asks.

When the old man replies he has a faraway look in his eyes. “Better places,” he says simply. “Better than here.”

“Who are you?” Christopher asks. “Where do you come from?”

The old man smiles a toothless grin. “Christopher.” And says no more.

Christopher looks behind him, as if afraid someone would come and stop him, but no one does. “Don’t worry.” The old man says, reading his thoughts. “They can’t see us here.”

Christopher walks slowly towards the cart, his bare feet swishing in the wet sand.

The old man seems to know what he wants. He beckons with his calloused finger, and that is all it takes for Christopher to sit down, in the seat behind the old man. Christopher starts, as two other boys have seemingly materialized out of the sea breeze. They, too, are next to him.

“Off we go,” the old man says, and the wheeled cart begins to move forward.

The boy, Christopher, does not bother to look behind him, the past years of his life slowly drifting away.

The railroad paved out of stone cracking with age. It is embedded in the sea. The cart rolls along, propelled by nothing but the wind rushing into the sail.

When the wind stops, Christopher sits up straighter, expecting something, but the old man just cackles. “Not the wind, son.” He laughs, “time.”

The two boys next to him, Christopher does not recognize. But something deep inside of him tugs, and he has a feeling they have come from the horrible places he had been, too.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The first boy looks at him, only to shake his head. The second has sad eyes. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. The cart moves on.

Christopher strains to see their destination, but the mist prevents him from doing so. He gazes fearfully at the storm clouds, only to see the clear, blue sky far ahead. It has been so long.

It is so quiet. None of them talk for a long time.

A light rain drifts down, riding on the wind, and the old man’s voice breaks the silence: “Say your name, son.”

Christopher opens his mouth, the faint “c” rolling on his tongue, but something stops him. He tries again, but the syllables, letters, faint yellow of his name are lost somewhere in the haze of his memories and experiences. In fact, he finds it difficult to speak at all.

The old man sighs. The sound is floating away, into the open ocean.

They ride on for a while, then the mist in front of them begins to envelope the track behind them. At first only the boy who was Christopher sees this, but then another. And finally, the old man, who does not seem surprised. He seems tired, almost.

The boy with sad eyes appears hesitant. “How long will it take?” he asks. It is the first time he has spoken, as far as the orphan, who was Christopher, arrived on the cart.

The old man remains silent.

The sad boy asks again, “How long? Will we go back?”

The old man shakes his head. “If you must,” he says quietly. The cart stops rolling.

The orphan feels a thudding heartbeat in himself and wonders the same things. He looks at the boy who did not speak, but he is looking away. The old man is looking at him intently. He thinks of the better place the old man spoke of. The clear weather. The absence of misery. Then he remembers the sadness of the orphanage, the empty stomachs, the marks of angry hands on his arms and legs and eventually his face.

The familiarity of his old habits. The life he is leaving behind. Yet he still longs for the better place, but does not know why the chains of his past are entangling him.

The orphan turns away from the sad boy, who has decided to stay. “I’m going back,” he states without feeling, and steps off of the cart, his eyes wide.

“I’m going back,” says the orphan, Christopher, again, and slowly turns, then runs back the way they came from, his footsteps much like the one of himself when he ran away. Soon the mist curls around him, and there is no trace of Christopher, the one who wished for a better place.

For a time, the cart does not move. Then, as the old man’s voice comes into focus, it begins to move again. Forward.

“You know, this train,” the old man begins. “It used to move both directions.”

He continues, “Before I went backwards. Backwards all the time. But nowadays, it’s only forwards. You can’t go the other direction.”

He says no more, and the two who are left on the cart are silent.