The Coastal Loop

Rain on the depot glass. The smell of ozone and wet wool. Brackwater sleeps the way a sick man sleeps, badly and in pieces, and you are the one who carries the last light through it.

Twenty years on Line 7. Tonight, the final run of the night, same as every night. The carriage hums under your hand like something alive and tired.

You sign the sheet. You are the conductor. The loop is yours.