Once upon a time there was a little engine called Edward.
He worked on one of the busiest branch lines on the Island of Sodor, where there was always something to do and never quite enough time to stand still and think about it.
Edward liked that.
It kept him useful, and being useful was something he had always been proud of, even in his old age.
That morning, however, Edward did not feel quite like his usual self.
His driver, Michael, arrived as he always did, careful and punctual.
“Morning, Edward,” he said, climbing into the cab. “Busy day ahead. Same as always.”
Edward’s fireman, Tom, followed behind him. “Coal’s been checked again,” he said. “No further trouble is expected beyond... what's already there.”
Edward gave a gentle hiss of steam, but it did not sound as cheerful as it usually did.
Something had been troubling him since yesterday.
Not something he could easily name.
Engines were not supposed to worry about things like that. They simply did their best to be really useful and be used. That was what they were built for.
But Edward had begun to notice things that did not fit neatly into that simple idea.
His eyes, for one thing.
They should have been black. All vehicles’ eyes were black. That was how it had always been.
But when Edward caught his reflection in a station window that morning, he saw something that made him feel oddly still inside.
A faint hazel tint.
Not strong enough for anyone to point at.
Not strong enough to prove anything was wrong.
But impossible to unsee once noticed.
And around them, the whites of his eyes were no longer clean either.
Thin red lines had appeared there since yesterday—like delicate cracks under glass.
Michael noticed it too when he looked at Edward more closely.
“Your eyes look… tired old boy,” he said slowly.
“Couldn't sleep well with Salty growling shanties in his sleep again?,” Tom added, trying for humour, though it did not quite land.
Salty hadn't been able to work for a week.
Edward said nothing at first.
Then, carefully, he replied, “I am fine.”
But even he did not fully believe it anymore.
They set off down the branch line, where everything looked just as it always had. Neat stations. Tidy signals. Wagons waiting patiently. Everything in its proper place.
At the first station, Charlie was already waiting.
Charlie was a purple saddle tank engine with red wheels and polished brass fittings. She usually liked to talk. In fact, Charlie was well known for telling jokes—bad ones, often—but jokes all the same, usually delivered with a confident grin and a quick burst of steam afterwards.
But today, she did not tell any. Not a single one.
That was the first thing Edward noticed.
Her driver, Lillian, stood on the platform with her arms folded. Her fireman, Arthur, looked unusually serious.
Charlie spoke immediately. “Oh, there you are,” she said sharply. “Took your time again, didn’t you?”
Edward blinked. Charlie did not usually speak like that either.
“I am exactly on time,” Edward replied gently. “The timetable says—”
“Oh, nobody cares what the timetable says anymore,” Charlie snapped. “It keeps changing depending on who you ask.”
Arthur muttered quietly, “It doesn’t change.” Charlie ignored him.
Edward looked at her more carefully then.
Her eyes were green, unlike before, and also like his own, they were wrong in a way that was hard to explain. The whites were no longer clean. Fine red streaks had spread through them, as though something beneath the surface had begun to show through.
It was not soot. It was not dirt. And it certainly wasn't strawberry jam.
And engines were not supposed to have anything like it at all.
Especially not blood. They were machines, if they had blood then they had organs.
Edward did not like that train of thought. He pushed it away quickly. “Charlie,” he said carefully, “you are not yourself today.”
Charlie gave a short, irritated hiss of steam. “I am myself,” she said. “You’re the ones who are all slow. Billy said so. As happy as he is for some fucking reason.”
Edward paused. So did Michael. So did Tom.
“Billy was happy?” Michael repeated.
Charlie nodded sharply. “My brother. He... was the only one who understands how things are supposed to run.”
Arthur frowned.
Charlie rolled her eyes slowly. Her voice had no humour in it. And that was perhaps the strangest thing of all.
Charlie always had humour. Even when she was annoyed. Even when she was impatient. Even when she was cross with everyone on the railway. She always joked.
But not today.
Today, she sounded like someone who had forgotten how.
Edward felt something uneasy settle in his boiler. Not quite fear. Something quieter. Recognition of change.
“I think you should be looked at after today old girl,” Lillian said firmly.
Charlie’s wheels twitched slightly.
Engines aren't supposed to twitch.
“I don’t need looking at,” she said. “Nothing is wrong.” But her voice was tighter now. Less certain.
Edward renoticed something else then. A dull, uncomfortable pressure behind his faceplates. It was not strong enough to stop him working.
But it was constant.
And beneath it, a thought he did not want to have kept returning. His teeth hurt. Engines were not supposed to think about teeth. They were not supposed to think about blood either.
And yet, since yesterday, Edward could not stop noticing the strange redness in their eyes. Charlie’s. His own. Others he had passed briefly along the line. All of them wrong in the same quiet way. He did not say it aloud.
Instead, he simply said, “We should continue our work.”
Charlie gave a short, dismissive sound. “I am continuing my work,” she said. “Whether you keep up or not is your problem.”
Then she added, almost casually, “Billy would already be gone down the line and back by now if he was still in his right mind.”
Edward watched her carefully as she steamed off.
There was no joke in her voice. No warmth. Not even irritation in the usual sense. Just certainty. A kind of certainty that did not belong there.
Arthur down at her form her cab. “She hasn’t told a single joke all day,” he said quietly.
Lillian frowned. “That’s not like her.”
Edward would have agreed.
Instead, he set off again along the busiest branch line on the Island of Sodor, where everything was still running on time, still neatly arranged, still behaving exactly as it should on paper.
And yet, every so often, Edward found himself noticing the same small detail again and again.
The way engines looked at each other a little too long. The way their eyes no longer matched what they were supposed to be. Black pupils. That was what they were meant to have. Always black. Simple. Certain.
But certainty, Edward was beginning to realise, was becoming harder to find than it used to be.
And so he just growled at it all.
He'd just take it out on some new fangled nonsense later.












