Apiary in the Abandoned Station

Morning unbuttons rust from the rails. Inside the ticket hall, combs hang like amber lungs. Bees drift through the broken timetable, rewriting departures in a gold grammar.

A child once dropped a marble here; now it sleeps in dust, a small moon under benches. When the hive hum deepens, the windows tremble as if distant engines are remembering their names.

I stand where platform numbers peeled away, listening to nectar strike the dark in bright syllables. Wild fennel leans through a crack in the wall, and the whole station smells of summer wire and rain.

By noon, light pools on the tracks like poured tea. No train arrives, yet everything is in motion: wings, pollen, the soft republic of work, a city rebuilt from sweetness and air.