I was building a bike out of train tracks

I was standing in the middle of a field, not a scrap of metal left unclaimed. The rails were warm under my hands, still humming from the last passing freight. I wasn’t welding—just fitting them together like puzzle pieces that knew their shape before they were made. A child ran past me, laughing, and I swear she was riding a bicycle with no wheels, just air beneath her. When I looked down at my own hands, they were covered in grease and something else—old paint, maybe, or rust that smelled like rain on concrete. I didn’t mind. It felt like the right kind of mess.