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The old farmhouse at the edge of Willow Creek was a wonderful place to live during the day. It was filled with the smell of baking bread, the sound of creaking floorboards, and the bright, happy sunshine that poured through the large bay windows. But when the sun dipped below the horizon, the farmhouse changed. For seven-year-old Lily, the disappearance of the sun meant the arrival of her greatest enemy: the dark.
Lily did not like the dark. When her mother turned out the bedside lamp, the familiar shapes of her room transformed. Her wardrobe looked like a tall, imposing giant. The pile of clothes on her chair looked like a crouching goblin. Even the branches of the old oak tree tapping against her windowpane sounded like bony fingers asking to come inside. Every night, Lily would pull her thick, down-feather duvet completely over her head, creating a small, warm, but very stuffy tent. She would squeeze her eyes shut and wait for the morning, her heart thumping a frantic, exhausting rhythm against her ribs.
On the coldest night of December, the shadows seemed darker than ever. A heavy snowstorm had blanketed Willow Creek, silencing the outside world. There were no crickets, no passing cars, no wind. The silence was so profound it made the darkness feel heavy, pressing down on Lily’s chest. She peeked out from under her duvet, her breath creating a tiny, trembling cloud in the chilly air of her bedroom. She looked toward the window. The frost was creeping up the glass, creating intricate, icy ferns.
Then, something impossible happened. The frost on the windowpane began to glow.
It was a soft, warm, golden light, the color of melted butter. Lily lowered her duvet just a fraction of an inch, her curiosity battling her fear. The golden light was emanating from a small, rectangular object resting on her windowsill, right inside her room. Lily hesitated. She looked around the shadowy corners of her bedroom, making sure the wardrobe-giant wasn’t moving. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she slipped her feet out of bed and tiptoed across the cold wooden floor.
Resting on the wooden sill was a ticket. It was made of thick, parchment-like paper, but it felt cold to the touch, like a thin sheet of ice. Etched into the frost, glowing with that warm golden light, were elegant, swirling letters: The Slumberline Express. Admit One. Destination: The Aurora Station.
As soon as her fingers brushed the ticket, a low, rhythmic vibration hummed through the floorboards. It wasn’t the scary, unpredictable shaking of a thunderstorm; it was a steady, soothing rumble, like the purr of a massive, contented cat. Chug… chug… chug… chug.
Lily looked out the window and gasped. The snowstorm had stopped. The clouds had parted, revealing a sky dusted with brilliant, diamond-like stars. But the true marvel was resting gently on the snow-covered lawn of her front yard. It was a train. But it was not made of iron and steel. The Slumberline Express was constructed entirely of frosted glass, polished silver, and deep midnight-blue velvet. Soft, glowing white steam puffed lazily from its crystal smokestack, smelling faintly of peppermint and warm vanilla. There were no tracks on the ground; the train simply hovered an inch above the powdery snow.
A door on the nearest carriage slid open with a soft, musical chime. A set of silver stairs unfolded, settling into the snow. Standing at the top of the stairs, holding a glowing lantern, was the most extraordinary creature Lily had ever seen. He walked on two legs and wore a smart, dark blue conductor’s uniform complete with a silver pocket watch chain, but he was not a man. He was a caribou. His fur was a soft, snowy white, and his eyes were kind, large, and the color of warm amber. Between his massive, sweeping antlers, tiny, actual stars were caught, twinkling and slowly orbiting like a miniature galaxy.
“Good evening, Miss Lily,” the caribou said. His voice was incredibly gentle, rumbling like a cello playing a slow, sad, beautiful song. “I am Conductor Silas. I see you have found your ticket. The night is long, and your shadows are heavy. Would you care to join us?”
Lily looked back at her dark, scary room. Then she looked at the beautiful, glowing train and the kind eyes of the caribou. The warmth radiating from the open carriage door promised safety. She didn’t bother changing out of her flannel nightgown. She grabbed her favorite wool coat, slipped on her furry winter boots, and clutching the glowing ticket tightly in her hand, she walked out her front door, stepping into the snow to board the magic of the night.
