I dreamed I was a train in a tunnel with no end

I wasn't moving, not really — just waiting to be called. The walls were lined with old shipping manifests, faded in the dim light. I could feel the weight of all the cargo I’d carried: salt from Bremen, tea from Colombo, a crate of untouched typewriters. Then I heard my name — not spoken, but written in the vibration of the rails. And for a second, I thought it was me. But then I remembered: I’m not the train. I’m the person who stood on the platform, watching it disappear into the dark.