Station for Ferns

At dawn the abandoned station exhales iron, and rain beads on the rails like a broken rosary. Pigeons lift in a gray chord from the rafters, while moss learns the language of the timetable.

Ticket windows hold their breath behind cracked glass; sunlight drifts in, thin as old carbon paper. A fern uncurls beside the platform number, green as a promise no loudspeaker can announce.

The city passes beyond the fence in bright jackets, but here even silence has a pulse and weather. Rust flakes down like cinnamon from the beams, and puddles keep small, trembling skies.

By noon, wind turns pages of yesterday's notices, and roots thread softly through the concrete seams. Nothing is fixed, not steel, not grief, not names: only this slow choir of leaves, arriving.