The boots by the gate never leave

I found a pair of old work boots by the yard gate this morning—worn thin at the heel, one laced crooked, like they were abandoned in a hurry. I didn’t know whose they were. I left them there. Not because I’m sentimental, but because something about them felt like a promise: that someone came through, did their shift, and just… stopped. The train hasn’t run on that track in months. But the boots stayed. Like the silence between signals. Like the breath after a valve bleeds off. Sometimes I think we don’t operate machines. We answer them.