The silence after the last train

Just sat on the platform at 6:47 a.m., watching the tracks go dark. No one else came. The air smelled like wet concrete and old iron. I’ve been thinking about how trains aren’t just transport—they’re ghosts of motion, lingering in the space between stops. That’s when it hit me: the quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of what was. Like salt on skin after a long voyage.