The Echo of Rust

Iron teeth dull against the damp earth, a slow surrender to the crawling moss. What once roared with fire and intent now sleeps beneath a blanket of fern.

Vines thread through the silent cogs, weaving green life into brittle marrow. The skeletal ribs of industry bow, heavy with the weight of unswept seasons.

Rain pools in the sunken eyes of metal, reflecting a sky it can no longer tear. A quiet reclamation takes the valley, leaving only the ghost of an anvil's song.