The countryside was a vivid place. Old-fashioned folk resided in the bustling sectors of the city, amidst which was the cottage of Agatha, a well-known woman among the common citizenry. She wore a tight bun around her head as she intertwined her wrinkled hands around the complex piece of wool. The firelight shimmered on her face, presenting shining white hair that held underneath a variety of loops and curls. Her granddaughter Diana lay in a deep sleep in her lap. Agatha caressed her beautiful young face, remembering a time of her own. As she finished her knit, a bright vermillion cardigan perfect for the subfusc winters, she lay down in a curved position next to her granddaughter.

She awoke promptly at the break of dawn, while the entire village seemed to be in a slumber. The only thing Agatha could hear was the melodious chirps of the local warbler, sweet as the keys of a piano. Soon after Agatha had sent Diana to school and finished her household chores, she made her way to her usual pastime location. As she hunched across, she witnessed prepossessing Cheshire orchards and rolling hills that expanded horizons. The citrus smell of oranges on a bright sunny day caused her to stop and pluck a few from the grocer’s yard. As she munched on the almost perfect oranges, it wasn’t long before she reached her destination: the railway station.

The coal-powered trains were polished to perfection with the cleanest of black colours, puffing about here and there, majestically showing off their grandeur. The Green Dragon was the most fearsome of them all. It shot through stations like a bullet and puffed about with the loudest of chimes. Agatha arrived at the station just after the departure of the Green Dragon. Her ambitions resided in the Debonair Dove, a train with the softest of whistles and the most calming of atmospheres. As she waited by the line, the porter Peeves came up to her.

“Greetings, Peeves,” she began, “Fine morning, isn’t it? May I ask about the delay of the Debonair Dove? It’s usually here earlier,” she finished.

“Good morning, Agatha. Yes, the Debonair Dove is running late. I will inform you when it is estimated to arrive.”

Peeves was a fine chap. He assisted Agatha in all of her matters and was a highly respected porter. His formal blue lining supported by shining black boots was never an attire to misinterpret.

After waiting for a short period of time, a shining cerulean train huffed by the line. It was quite similar to the Debonair Dove, only it had a few cabins too few and had more intricate driving wheels. But poor Agatha, with her declining eyesight, would have never noticed this. So, without any hesitation, she boarded the train. She rested in her supposed usual cabin and waited for the sky-blue machine to reach the Vivacious Valleys, a place with perfect gardens of pansies, daisies, and five o’clocks. Its viewing point gave sight to the exquisite ultramarine river, which contained the freshest drinking water. Along its banks were the sturdy maple and beech trees that held viridescent leaves at this time of the season. The atmosphere of this heavenly, ethereal beauty made it perfect to spend an afternoon in. After an hour, Agatha got off the train. As she peered about, she noticed that the train had brought her to the opposite side of the town, near the Grieving Graveyard.

The Grieving Graveyard reeked of death and guilt that sent a stiff sensation to the gut. Agatha shuddered in the chilly breeze as she looked around the area. The air had an eerie touch that was full of trepidation. She returned to the bleak railway station of the graveyard and knocked on the postmaster’s office doors. He opened the door and stared Agatha in the eye. His demeanour was aloof, and he gave off the pungent feeling of solidarity. He had shrivelled cheeks, made more ominous with his purely pale skin. His stiffened knuckles sent shivers down Agatha’s spine as they popped about in the atmosphere. He was dressed in all-black overalls with a hat covering the tips of his lifeless, empty eyes.

“Um… coul- could you please tell me why the Debonair Dove brought me to the Grieving Graveyard?” Agatha asked, with fear bottled up in the very depths of her heart.

“That was no Debonair Dove, old lady. That was the Graveyard Venturer. You have to wait for a few hours to get back to your original destination,” he spoke out shrewdly in a grating voice, almost as if he were a ghost.

Agatha was speechless. Her mind went blank. She hesitantly sat by the line and waited, her heart beating violently.

Eventually, a mahogany-coloured train came to Agatha’s rescue. As she seated herself, she sighed a huge breath of relief. Through her fogged-up train window, she saw a plethora of things that eased the very insides of her mind and suppressed her heartbeat. The fishermen, fishing for brilliantly scaled salmon with their lovely young children, were a delight to watch. She saw an emporium of shops selling a variety of different items: tailors with different silk dresses, a grocer’s toffee collection, or even the supermarket on a common busy day. It was teatime when she stepped off the train and headed back home down the winding stone path from where she came. Agatha’s heart settled as she approached her cosy cottage. The day’s overwhelming adventure had shaken her, yet as she crossed the threshold and found Diana awake, her worries began to dissipate. The warmth of her granddaughter’s embrace, as they munched on delectable tea sandwiches and freshly baked scones, turned the day’s unease into a fond memory. In that moment, Agatha realised that no matter where her journeys took her, she would always find her way back to the joys that truly mattered.

Author: Ahaan Dhingra, 13 years old