The Tale Told runs one short story each month, with a short note on how it was built. This month's piece is made almost entirely of overheard dialogue.
A note on the form
Stories built from overheard speech are a useful exercise in restraint. There's no narrator to explain who anyone is or what they feel; the reader assembles it from what's said and what isn't. The challenge is to give just enough that a shape appears — and to stop before it becomes a puzzle.
Overheard on the Night Train
"Is this seat taken?"
"No. Well — it was. They got off at the last stop."
"You don't mind?"
"No. Sit. It's a long way to the coast."
A pause long enough for the lights of a town to slide past the window.
"You're going all the way?"
"To the end of the line. My sister's. Or it was my sister's. I'm clearing it out."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. We hadn't spoken in eleven years. I'm mostly going to find out what she kept."
The trolley rattles past. Nobody buys anything.
"Do you know what you're hoping to find?"
"A letter, maybe. I sent her one. A long time ago. I'd like to know if she opened it."
"And if she did?"
"Then I'll know she read it and still didn't write back."
"And if she didn't?"
A longer pause. The train slows for a station that doesn't stop.
"Then I suppose I'll read it to her. Out loud. In the empty kitchen. That sounds mad."
"It doesn't."
"You're kind. What about you? Where are you going?"
"Home. I've been away a while too."
"How long?"
"About eleven years."
Neither of them says anything else until the sea appears, grey and enormous, in the first light.
Afterword
The story turns on a question neither character asks. Readers have offered several answers; the author, sensibly, declines to choose one.