The train arrives like thunder stitched to steel. Its whistle splits the air, sharp and distant. Then everything is motion; windows rushing past, fragments of lives flashing quicker than my eyes can hold. A boy presses his forehead to the glass, tracing fog with his finger. A woman lifts a paper cup to her lips, steam curling into shadows. Someone laughs, though at what I will never know.

For a moment, I am part of their world. My reflection collides with theirs, faint and transparent, a ghost clinging to their journey. Then the train keeps moving, pulling them further into a story I’ll never read. 

The rails hum long after they disappear, a vibration in my bones that feels like memory, though I have nothing to remember. I stand on the platform's edge, hands buried in my pockets, watching the horizon swallow the last flicker of light.

There’s a strange comfort in it; the reminder that the world holds countless lives unfolding at once, each brushing past without slowing. We are all trains in motion, strangers caught in brief intersections, leaving only the faintest echoes behind.