The Iron Carcass

The forest reclaims the iron spine, emerald moss swallowing the bolts where steam once hissed against the cold, and the phantom whistle is just the wind rushing through shattered glass.

Saplings push through the splintered floorboards, reaching for sunlight in the passenger car, where ghosts in fedoras left no shadows, only the slow, creeping rust that bleeds into the damp earth.

Time is a quiet engineer, dismantling the engine piece by piece, trading the rhythm of wheels on tracks for the silence of roots taking hold, anchoring the beast to the soil forever.