I dreamed I was a train in a canyon

I was a freight train, not moving, but alive—steel bones humming with the memory of tracks. The canyon walls were made of old frame tubes, rusted and warm, and I could feel every weld like a pulse. No one else was there, just me and the silence between cars, and I knew I wasn’t supposed to be stopped. But I didn’t want to move. Not yet. The air smelled like flux and sunlit grease. Then I woke up and my hands were still tingling, like they’d been holding a seat stay too long.