On the morning Mira turned thirteen, she found a brass key in her grandmother's biscuit tin. It opened the station at the end of Ash Lane, so forgotten that ivy had swallowed half its name. Inside, dust covered the benches, and the clock above the ticket window still read 9:47, the minute the last train had left forty years earlier. Mira had expected ruins; instead she found a room that looked as if everyone had stepped out and would soon return.
米拉十三岁生日那天早上，她在祖母的饼干罐里发现了一把黄铜钥匙。钥匙打开了阿什巷尽头那座车站——它被遗忘得太久，常春藤已经吞掉了它一半的名字。里面，长椅上落满灰尘，售票窗口上方的时钟仍指着9点47分，也就是四十年前最后一班列车开走的时刻。米拉本以为会看到废墟，却发现这间屋子仿佛所有人只是出去了一下，很快就会回来。
She came back with a broom and a bucket, swept the platform, washed the windows, and chalked the old times on a fresh board. Across the lane, retired stationmaster Mr. Iwata watched from his garden. One afternoon he crossed the road with a box of photographs. “If you are going to keep that clock company,” he said, “you should know who it is waiting for.” They sat on the bench while he named the passengers he remembered: a nurse, two brothers, and a bride who missed her train.
放学后，她带着扫帚和水桶回来，扫净站台，擦亮窗户，用粉笔把旧时刻写在一块新黑板上。巷子对面，退休站长岩田先生从自家花园里望着她。一天下午，他抱着一盒照片走过马路。“如果你要陪着那只钟，”他说，“就该知道它在等谁。”他们坐在长椅上，他一一说出自己还记得的乘客：一名护士、两兄弟，还有一位错过了自己婚礼列车的新娘。
On the first cold Saturday of November, a young woman got off the bus at Ash Lane and asked whether the station still had a platform two. Her name was Lina, and she carried a folded drawing of a boy waving beside a green train. Her grandfather had been a porter there; before he died, he asked her to photograph the spot where he once stood. Mira unlocked the gate. Platform two was shorter than the drawing, but the iron shelter and the painted numbers remained.
十一月第一个寒冷的星期六，一位年轻女子在阿什巷下了公交车，问车站是否还有二号站台。她叫莉娜，手里拿着一幅折起的画：一个男孩在绿色列车旁挥手。她的祖父曾在这里当搬运工；去世前，他请她去拍下他当年站过的位置。米拉打开了门锁。二号站台比画里短，但铁皮雨棚和刷在墙上的编号还在。
Lina was quiet. Then she noticed the council notice beside the gate: the station would be demolished in spring and the land sold for parking. “They cannot,” she said, as though the building belonged to her too. Mira explained the surveyor's visits and the missing repair money. They stood in the wind, two strangers who had each lost something in the same place. That evening Mira called Mr. Iwata, and the three of them met in the ticket hall.
莉娜沉默了。随后她注意到门边的一张市政告示：车站将于春天拆除，土地将卖给停车场开发商。“他们不能这样，”她说，仿佛这座建筑也属于她。米拉讲了测量员来过几次，也讲了修缮经费没有着落。她们并肩站在风里，两个陌生人在同一个地方各自失去了些什么。那天晚上，米拉给岩田先生打了电话，三个人在售票大厅碰了面。
The council agreed to one public meeting. Mira and Mr. Iwata spent two weeks preparing: photographs on the walls, Lina's drawing by the window, and a table of borrowed books. On the evening of the meeting, more people came than the hall could hold. A woman said she had learned to read on that platform while waiting for her father. A man brought the brass bell his grandfather had rung. The council officer listened, took notes, and said nothing until the room fell quiet.
市政会同意召开一次公开会议。米拉和岩田先生花了两周准备：墙上挂照片，窗边摆上装框的莉娜的画，还放了一张借来的书桌。开会那晚，来的人多得大厅装不下。一位女士说，她当年就在这个站台上一边等父亲一边学会了阅读。一位男士带来了他祖父摇过的黄铜铃。市政官员听着，记着笔记，直到全场安静下来才开口。
In March the council changed its plan. The station would not be demolished; the roof would be repaired, and the ticket hall would become a small reading room, open on weekends. Mr. Iwata polished the clock but did not reset it. “Nine forty-seven is part of the place,” he said. On opening day, a heritage rail trolley stopped at platform one, and Lina stepped down with her camera. The station had waited forty years for a new passenger; now it had a room of them.
三月，市政会修改了计划。车站不再拆除；屋顶会修好，售票大厅将变成一间周末开放的小阅览室。岩田先生把时钟擦亮，却没有重新调时。“九点四十七分是这个地方的一部分，”他说。开放那天，一辆文物保护轨道车停在一号站台，莉娜拿着相机走下车。这座车站等了四十年，只为一个新乘客，如今它拥有满满一屋子。