The Rust of Echoes

The silent machinery of dusk grinds down the shadows into dust, leaving only the faint hum of things we almost remember.

A discarded wheel in the overgrown grass holds the curve of forgotten journeys, spokes spun tight with spider silk and the slow oxidation of afternoon light.

We listen to the static between stations, searching for the shape of a familiar voice, but the signal scatters in the wind, a fading pulse against the encroaching night.