I dreamt the tracks were made of breath

I was walking along a rail line that didn’t exist in any map—just endless curves, cold and silver under a sky that never darkened. The rails weren’t metal, but something like frozen breath, each one humming faintly when I touched it. I could hear the trains not by sound, but by the way the air trembled—like memory passing through a body that no longer knew how to speak. At the end, there was a signal box with no lights, just a single pair of boots left inside, worn thin at the heels. I didn’t know if I’d arrived or just remembered arriving.