The Rusting Tracks

Iron veins swallowed by the green tide, fern fronds uncurling where the engines breathed, a cathedral of glass missing its panes, inviting the rain to polish the platform.

Here, the echoes of departures have settled, woven into the roots that split the concrete, a quiet reclamation of the urgent schedules, now governed by the slow blooming of moss.

Only the wind remembers the whistles, a hollow sigh through the collapsing rafters, as the forest reclaims its stolen territory, one rusted spike, one creeping vine at a time.