You walk to the far wall of the station and wipe the dust off the display case with your sleeve.
Inside is a cavalcade of yellowing newspaper clippings, sepia-tone photos, and other similarly tinged memorabilia. The station, you deduce, was a popular stop for circus trains back in the era that was a thing. Suspenders and bloomers and lots of straw hats. Very Ken Burns.
You've never been to a circus, except the bendy-people ones in Vegas. Still, it's evocative.
The train signals time to board.