Trains are strange when you stop to think about them. Some people take them to escape. Others take them because it's Tuesday. The traveler, though? The traveler feels they're an old friend — the kind who doesn't ask where you've been or why you're leaving again.
You watch them slide past at dusk, windows glowing like small amber rooms. You watch them pause at stations, let out a long breath, then disappear into the dark. That's not just machinery. That's a quiet promise that somewhere else exists, and you could be there by morning if you wanted. What's a schedule, really? Someone's belief that things should show up on time. And a departure? Just a chance to leave an old version of yourself on a slightly dusty seat. The traveler knows the trains will run whether you're on board or not. The traveler knows they sound the same at 3 AM as they do at noon. And still, they listen. Maybe that's all it is — someone standing on a platform, watching the lights goby, and not quite ready to explain why.