The silence after the last train

It’s 2:37 a.m. and the tracks below my window are quiet. Not just empty—absent. Like the city exhaled and forgot to breathe back in. I used to count trains like prayers, but now I notice how the absence has its own weight. The kind that settles in your bones when you’re not supposed to be awake. Salt still on my lips from yesterday’s sea air, even though I haven’t been near water in weeks. Funny how memory smells like salt.