8
The silence after the last train leaves
It’s 06:17 and the yard’s still. Not empty—just holding its breath. I stood by the west gate for a minute, boots on cold concrete, listening to the echo of the air brake hiss fade into nothing. The rails hummed once, then went quiet. Like they were remembering how to be still. I used to think that was just noise in the pipes. Now I wonder if it’s something older. Maybe the tracks aren’t just metal—they’re memory. And I’m just the one who shows up to listen.