Elena had no idea that her pulp novel had already been printed and published, and was in high demand everywhere. She was carrying her luggage as she stepped down from the carriage, arriving at Victoria Train Station.
The train station was undoubtedly magnificent, with towering arches adorned with exquisite carvings. Elena followed the bustling crowd into the main hall. A large clock hung on the wall, and she could smell the smoky scent of burning coal mixed with the aroma of food stalls outside, mingling with the fragrances of soap, leather, and sweat from the throng of people.
Among the crowd were gentlemen dressed in dark suits and tall top hats, ladies wearing large skirts. Railway staff in black uniforms busily moved luggage, weaving through the crowd. Newsboys were shouting out railway guides. The crowd was so dense that Elena had to hold her luggage tightly in front of her, ignoring the curious glances from others.
Finally, she found the ticket counter and queued up to buy a first-class ticket, feeling relieved. She had worried about arriving too late and missing out on tickets. The *Bradshaw's Guide* had mentioned that first-class passengers enjoyed padded seats, while second-class had only wooden benches with open doors on both sides. Third-class was even worse; Elena had peeked in and saw there was no roof at all—she couldn't imagine what would happen in rain or snow.
When it was time to depart, she hurried to the ticket check and followed the crowd to the steaming train that had just arrived.
The locomotive before her was unusually massive, its complex steel pipes gleaming coldly in the sunlight. The chimney continuously spewed out coal slag, occasionally mixed with unburned chunks of coal. By now, Elena had grown accustomed to the smell of coal smoke. As the train approached, it made a "chug-chug-chug-chug" sound, much like a cartoon train. No wonder first-time viewers mistook it for a monster; the puffing chimney resembled the breath of a beast.
Elena found her carriage and pulled open the door, sitting inside. The compartment was cramped, like a carriage seat, barely allowing her to stretch her legs. As five other passengers boarded, the compartment gradually became livelier.
The train departed on time, the carriage starting to gently jostle, making it difficult to write or read. To pass the time, the group began chatting.
Among them was a couple heading to Brighton for health treatments—they had heard the seawater baths were famous and hoped to restore their health. Another newlywed couple was going to the seaside for their honeymoon, excitedly talking about the wonderful times ahead. A lone gentleman introduced himself as a reporter, saying he was traveling to Brighton to investigate siren legends.
This immediately piqued everyone's curiosity, and they all asked the reporter to elaborate.
Elena quietly pricked up her ears. Non-human races did exist in this world, but she had no idea if sirens were among them.
The reporter scratched the back of his head, smiling awkwardly: "Actually, these are just some unverified rumors. You know how newspapers like to chase after sensational news. Honestly, I don't really believe in sirens myself, hahaha."
However, the lively young wife of the newlyweds quickly chimed in: "You never know! After all, the ocean is so deep and vast. Our knowledge of the seabed is still very limited. Maybe sirens really do exist?"
Her husband sided with her immediately: "Exactly! Don't keep us in suspense, tell us what rumors you've heard!"
Under their eager gazes, the reporter reluctantly began his account.
Last month, several fishing boats mysteriously disappeared near the waters off Brighton. On that day, a storm was raging, casting a dark shadow over the area. Two days passed and people grew anxious, organizing search parties in hopes of finding the missing vessels. Yet after intense searching, nothing was found.
On the morning of the third day, a shocking scene unfolded: the missing boats had returned safely to the harbor as if they had never left. Even more strangely, the crews were unconscious, unresponsive. When they awoke, they had no memory of the past two days, as if some mysterious force had wiped their minds clean.
"Maybe there's another explanation?" one of the men in the couple offered doubtfully: "Perhaps they drank contaminated water causing poisoning and memory loss, or the boats were blown back by the wind?"
The reporter nodded: "That's a reasonable guess. But one thing is odd— all the fish on those boats were gone."
This strange fact caused everyone to ponder, trying to come up with a plausible explanation.
"Local fishermen speculate that maybe the sirens saved the boats," the reporter continued, "bringing the crews and vessels back safely, but took the fish on board as payment. Haha, sounds like those sirens are pretty nice after all."
"Or maybe the wind blew the boats back and knocked the fish into the sea," the skeptical man guessed, "That kind of thing can happen, right?"
The reporter shrugged: "Honestly, I don't know the answer. That's exactly why I'm heading to Brighton—to dig deeper."
This story about sirens certainly added some excitement to an otherwise dull journey. As the train neared Brighton station, the lively wife was still lost in endless imagination. She said excitedly: "If sirens really exist, what would they look like? Would they have the upper body of a human and the tail of a fish, like in the legends?"
Her husband teased: "Don't forget, they might have fish heads and human bodies—that fits the name 'siren' better, right?" His words drew laughter through the carriage.
"Actually," Elena couldn't help but join in, "whether sirens exist or not isn't the point. Why not just assume they do? That way, you could create a 'Siren Town' or build a siren-themed amusement park, encouraging tourists to go out searching for sirens, organizing immersive 'Find the Siren' events, or even hold a grand annual 'Siren Festival!' I'm sure it would attract tons of visitors."
Elena had kept a low profile all along, rarely speaking. Others only knew she was a writer, but her idea stunned everyone in the carriage. All eyes were wide with amazement. Even the usually reserved gentleman praised her: "You're a genius! I've never thought of it that way."
He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to Elena with both hands: "If there's a chance to collaborate, please be sure to contact me."
Elena took the card, which bore the name and address of a toy company. "Of course, but I don't have a card with me, unfortunately. You can send a letter to *The Strand Magazine* under my pen name, Allen. The magazine will forward it to me."
She explained that her other pen names were mostly for women's magazines or pulp novels, not quite fitting here.
Upon hearing the pen name, the reporter was suddenly stunned and immediately reached out to shake her hand. "You're Mr. Allen! I'm a reporter for *The Strand*, and we've long admired your work. Your urban legend series scared me badly, and your ghost tours in Covent Garden were truly chilling! Luckily I went early; otherwise, the queues would be months long now. You're definitely a rising star in horror literature."
Others were also surprised, hardly believing that this unremarkable-looking man had such a famed reputation.
The reporter firmly shook Elena's hand, nodding in respect: "No wonder you have such unique insight and creativity about siren legends. If you were to plan a siren journey as captivating as your ghost tours, it would surely be a huge hit."
Elena waved her hands hurriedly: "No, no, it's just an idea."
"With your talent," the reporter praised, "that idea might not be far from becoming reality. If there really is a 'Siren Journey,' don't forget to save me a ticket—I'm worried that by the time I hear about it, the waitlist will be months long."
Elena had only spoken casually, but to escape the reporter's enthusiastic attention, she grabbed her luggage as soon as the train stopped, quickly opened the door, and jumped down.
As she fled the carriage, she could still hear the naive newlyweds questioning the reporter about who she really was, and the reporter wildly praising the thrilling aspects of her ghost tours—making her feel that she owed him a fee for such energetic promotion.