A Train Ticket

by Anushka Balaji

A train ticket. It should be nothing, yet I keep holding onto it.

Now thin, almost scale-like from the constant handling, further weakened at the edges where my thumb always seems to rest, as though it has learnt the shape of my fingerprints. The corners curl inward, worn out, and a faint crease runs through the crooked centre where I must have folded it in a hurry.

It’s orange. Too bright, almost, for something so easily forgotten. Or perhaps that’s why it lingers, radiating a small, stubborn brightness that refuses to dull completely, even as everything else begins to fade.

The ink has nearly disappeared now. The times, places, proof that a journey was made…have thinned into something barely there, each touch lifting it further away. And yet, in place of what’s been lost, something else remains: faint indents pressed into the surface, the ghosts of words that can no longer be read but still insist on being felt.

It’s strange—how, the more it fades, the harder it becomes to let go.

I remember quickly slipping it into my pocket as I stepped onto the pavement, already distracted, already laughing at something someone said. It was cold, I think. Or maybe I only remember it that way because everything felt sharper, brighter. The kind of day that insists on being noticed.

We didn’t stop moving. From the station to the shop, from the shop to the rides, from one burst of laughter to the next. Everything blurred together in the way that only good days do, when you don’t realise you’re inside them until much later.

The ticket meant nothing then. It was just a way in, a way there.

I find it again that evening. Then later, in my bag. Then in the pocket of a coat I haven’t touched since last Winter.

It keeps returning to me, or perhaps I keep returning to it.

Each time, I pause.

Gradually, it happens before I can stop it: a smile, slight and uninvited, as though it belongs to someone else.

It comes in fragments. Never whole, always hesitant. The rush of cold air as we stepped outside onto the pavement. The lights from a distance, almost unreal. The more I return to it, the less certain I am of what really happened and what I have added since. Sometimes, the laughter feels louder and sometimes quieter. Sometimes, I remember a friend’s face clearly, and sometimes, only their voice.

I never try to piece it together fully. It feels like it would fall apart if I did.

I try to throw it away.

I hold it over the bin. The paper is frail and lighter than it should be, as though most of it has already gone. It would be so easy.

But I hesitate.

Because it isn’t really the ticket I’m holding anymore.

It’s not the rides, not the lights, not even the sound of laughter, but the feeling of it, intact somehow, pressed into something that was never meant to last.

I fold it again, more carefully this time, and slip it back into my pocket.

I keep meaning to throw it away.

I don’t.

Editor’s Note: Anushka’s powerful piece sits in the intersection between objects and memories. Some aspects are fixed while some betray elements of unreliability. However, feelings linger throughout, with sensations built through her varied sentence length.

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A Teacup

by Elsa Jacobi

Nestled amongst its brethren, the cup exists, standing in the settled air of the cupboard. Its handle is sandwiched between assorted crockery, all placed in a loosely organised puzzle. A loving hand clasps the rim to extract the cup from the mess without a fuss, and after setting it down rests a teabag over its worn edge.

While the water boils, a deep breath is taken from the darkness by the pottery. The routine is nothing new; every morning the kettle will heat; a spoon clinks against ceramic; a new ring is made on a much-loved wooden side table.

By now, the bag of herbs diffuses through the water and the flavour seeps into the microscopic cracks, forged from use, while a spoon follows predetermined patterns scratched into the base from years of movement, like a map. The early morning light turns fuzzy as steam surges upwards out of the chipped mug; it acts as a refuge in the beginning hours of the day, before the cacophony of noise descends inexorably upon its user. And once the final dregs are drained from the bottom, the cup is put on the side and left to soak.

The routine will be repeated tomorrow, a reliable surety amid the world’s constant change.

Editor’s Note: Shaped by rhythm and repetition, Elsa subtly personifies the surrounding space to place her object as part of a living system. In doing so, she is able to convey the passage of time and the elements which persist.