The rails hum softly beneath the train.
The night stretches endlessly outside the windows, a vast darkness occasionally punctuated by distant lights blinking in rhythm with the tracks. The air inside the carriage is warm but carries the faint metallic scent of steel, oil, and motion. There is a subtle vibration beneath my feet, a gentle, constant reminder of the movement, the journey, the momentum.
And there he is.
The conductor, tall and steady, moving quietly along the narrow aisle, uniform neat but worn with experience. His hands clasp tickets, check compartments, adjust passes with a practiced rhythm that suggests repetition, discipline, and devotion. Every motion is deliberate, precise, imbued with care, yet natural, unforced, reflective of countless nights spent traversing the sam
