The Orchard Inside the Station

At dawn the train yard exhales iron mist, and between rails, volunteer plum trees lift small lanterns of blossom into the diesel air, as if the city forgot to lock one dream away.

Commuters pass with rain on their sleeves, tickets softening in their palms like leaves. A blackbird tests the loudspeaker’s static, threading one bright note through the announcements.

Under platform three, roots sip from cracked pipes, finding old rivers under poured concrete. Fruit bruises gold in the gravel and cinders, sweetness learning the language of rust.

By night, the signal lights turn orchard-red, and windows carry faces home like moons. When the last carriage fades past the warehouses, petals keep falling where no one waits.