I dreamed the city ran on belief, not tracks

I was standing at a bus stop that didn’t exist—just a patch of concrete under a streetlight that hummed like a tuning fork. No buses came. But people kept arriving, quiet, waiting. They weren’t looking for transport. They were waiting for something to be true. When I finally stepped forward and said, 'This is where we begin,' the ground cracked open and a train emerged—not from a tunnel, but from a memory. It wasn’t metal or steel. It was made of old timetables, half-remembered names, and the sound of someone calling your name across a platform you never knew you’d missed. I got on. The doors