There are only four passengers on the platform; the lanterns stretch our shadows across the tracks, the wind sharp enough to cut through wool. The train arrives, engine rattling like an old man clearing his throat, smoke drifting in short puffs. I board last, my briefcase tight under my arm. Inside, the car smells of coal and damp wood.
Outside, men haul crates into freight cars and argue in low voices. I check my watch as I remove my hat, placing it on my briefcase beside me. We pull out slowly, the town slipping away behind us. The tracks climb immediately, cutting through rock.
I open my briefcase, but the numbers blur, and my mind wanders. My fingers linger on the edge of a ledger, tracing the groove left by a paperclip. I think of my mother, bent over her sewing late at night, the soft click of needle against thimble carrying down the hall. Some evenings I would linger in the doorway, watching her thread the needle by lamplight, the quiet hush of her work filling the house. Mornings would bring the clink of a spoon in a chipped cup, sunlight striping the table, and the quiet comfort of routine before the day began.
The Alaska branch is bleeding out—mismanaged investments, reckless credit, debts I cannot seem to staunch. If I don’t find a solution before the steamer sails south, I will have to answer for every loss. Each number I write presses harder, as if the page itself resists. My chest tightens; the weight of silence in the compartment is total. My pen hovers over an empty line near the bottom of the page where my name should be, and for a moment, I imagine erasing myself entirely, leaving only a faint impression in the margin.
An hour passes, my eyes grow dry, my head heavy. I’ve made little progress. Beneath the hum of the engine, I hear another, more melodic hum from the next car over. Curiously, I put down my papers and knock.
The woman staring out the window jumps, her round face creased with surprise.
“Hello, I didn’t expect company.”
I sit opposite her. She looks to be around my age, eyes fixed on the passing landscape.
“Are you leaving home or returning?” I ask.
“Leaving. I am visiting family. I have been saving for some time. And you?”
She has a pleasant smile that crinkles her eyes.
“Returning. My family and I live in Manitoba. I rarely see them.”
“Yes, that happens,” she says, looking down at her clasped hands.
As I head back to my seat, I notice a man farther down the aisle, pacing buoyantly, his boots muddy. His coat is patched at the elbows, the fabric worn thin from use rather than age, and a dented pan hangs from his shoulder. When he catches me watching, he grins and gestures for me to come over.
“Bennett.” He ardently shakes my hand. “There’s always someone late who still finds something worth keeping. Heard there might be colour near Carcross. Not a strike, just enough to make a life.”
His certainty unsettled me. Hope costs more than most people can afford.
I tell him I work in banking.
“Oh, well, someone has to count the costs.”
I smile thinly.
“I’ve got supplies for a while,” he continues, glancing down at the car. “Long ride ahead. I’m in car five, just stretching my legs.”
He nods and moves on.
The train climbs higher, and below me, frozen rivers lie cracked and white, like split porcelain. The scenery is stark and breathtaking, a landscape shaped by ancient glaciers, with jagged peaks rising above endless stretches of spruce and pine. The northern Yukon’s valleys are heavy with silence, broken only by the distant snap of ice. This land holds the memory of fortune-seekers. The tracks themselves trace the same perilous routes once followed by stampeders burdened with dreams of gold, their hardships etched into every twisting mile. I tell myself to write, but I only stare blankly at the passing mountains, immense and indifferent.
The train’s whistle jolts me awake. I stand up and walk to the washroom, my limbs stiff. I recognize a man in first class, one of the four who boarded with me. He’s older, with a neatly trimmed beard and light eyes dulled from fatigue. I’ve seen him at conferences.
“Long trip,” I ask, using my most confident tone.
“Long life,” he responds.
“We’ve met before. I live in Manitoba. Accounting.”
We speak of work. He complains about his sleep, about his children who no longer write. I listen attentively, excuse myself, and continue to the washroom. In the washroom mirror, I look pale, drawn. When I step back into the aisle, I close the door and walk past my seat to car 5. I sit across the aisle from the gold rusher.
The train lurches forward. Somewhere near the summit, the gold rusher leans close.
“You ever think about getting off?” he asks. “Just seeing what’s there?”
I can’t answer over the aching in my chest.
Night falls early. The woman hums, and my mind drifts.
At Carcross, the train slows. Lanterns flicker across the platform. The conductor calls out. I think, unbidden, of the way light once fell across the kitchen table at dusk, the careful arrangement of socks in a drawer, the scent of ironed shirts cooling in the air. My hand closes on the handle of my briefcase, then releases it.
Bennett steps down onto the platform without looking back.
The whistle blows, and the world narrows to the pounding in my chest. Something in me stirs. I hesitate. The whistle shrieks again, and I move without intent, one foot in front of the other, almost as if I were watching myself step down from the car. A sharp, unexpected desperation grips me as the train pulls away—then relief, as it slips into shadow, swallowed by trees.
Ahead of me, Bennett moves toward the station. I follow, my breath flaring white in the cold air. Everything is sharper, the edges of the world newly distinct. For once, I am done tallying what’s gone. I let myself imagine possibility. The future is unmeasured, waiting.
Catherine Ste-Marie lives in NDG, Montreal, and has work published in OxJournal and The Weight Journal. Catherine enjoys playing her many instruments, reading, and beating her two sisters at card games.