The quiet between the shifts

It’s 3:17 a.m. again, and I’m standing by the east gate with my boots off, listening to the way the air settles after the last train clears. The yard’s gone still—not empty, just holding its breath. I keep thinking about how machines don’t forget. They remember every jolt, every cold start, every time someone didn’t tighten a bolt right. And maybe that’s why I still pause before stepping back into the cab—like I’m not just starting a run, but answering something older than the rails.