A missed train. A late-night walk. And an umbrella where no umbrella should be.
The narrator only wanted to do the decent thing — put it back where he found it. He had no idea what else was lying on the line.
Five minutes. That's all it takes. Five minutes, a railway crossing, and a debt twenty years in the making.
J. Jefferson Farjeon — fog, fate, and the quiet horror of an ordinary night.
