Mett’s family chose the small upper room for the farewell.
It had a window that opened onto ordinary stone, not the ruined bay. Leth asked before bringing the station’s working book. The family wanted the page with Mett’s own note beneath the return mark, and the operator placed it where visitors could read without turning the gathering into an exhibition of machinery.
Wait for the mark before resetting.
Iven had heard the words in Mett’s voice. Now they stood in ink beside a chair no longer occupied.
He stayed through the quiet part. He listened to a brother tell a story about a journey that had gone wrong for entirely ordinary reasons, years before the war. Mett had arrived at the wrong village for a wedding, helped put up the tables and eaten two cakes before discovering that he knew neither person being married. The strangers had liked him enough to send another cake along when he hurried back to the proper road. His brother said the real wedding had forgiven the delay only after seeing the offering.
People laughed, briefly and painfully. Mett had been more than a tired hand and a useful operator, and the room did not need Iven to explain the difference.
