korphavn

the only station on the line with two storeys. the upstairs is where the stationmaster sleeps, and through the small window you can sometimes see the lamp burning past midnight — not because anything is happening, only because he reads.

korphavn was a fishing port before the railway came, and the railway came because of the fish. now the fish have gone elsewhere and the trains keep coming, six a day each way, and the village has settled into the rhythm. the clock above the door has been eight minutes fast since 1962, and nobody fixes it; nobody is ever late.

tickets are sold from a hatch beside the waiting room. the stationmaster — alvar, son of the previous one — knows every traveller who passes through more than twice, and remembers their stop without being told. he is polite to everyone and warm to almost no one.

field note: in winter the lamp's halo on the snow is rust-coloured and small, like a coin dropped from a long way up.