Atlas of the Night Trains

In the throat of the station, the rails hum low like a cello tuned to the planet's pulse. Maps glow with river-blue veins, and every platform exhales a thin, metallic fog.

Above, offices sleep with their blinds half-closed, stacked like dark books in a sealed library. Streetlights sprinkle coins on puddles, each ripple a small applause for passing wheels.

A conductor lifts a lantern through the swarm, counting faces the way a gardener counts seeds. Names drift up, then settle on the tracks, a quiet snowfall of ordinary hours.

When dawn unbuttons the skyline, the trains empty, leaving their warmth in the benches and steel. The city draws a long, patient breath, and turns the page, still humming.