By late morning the toy-train shop had a ticket window no taller than a jam jar. Each carriage received a slip with its own name and a polite request to show it to the tunnel before leaving the table.
We asked at the kiosk next door. "My blue sleeper waited its turn," said a woman with a paper bag of bread. "It nodded to the station, then to the teapot, as if both counted as platforms."
The shopkeeper keeps a notebook of thank-yous, written in pencil so small it looks like a timetable for ants. One entry reads: "Tunnel said yes. Platform said please come home for supper."
A rumor on the next street claimed the red engine had gone missing. It had only circled back for a second ticket, just to practice saying hello.