Beneath the marrow of midnight, where stars shudder and whisper, the freights roll in solemn procession. Each boxcar a tomb, each journey a requiem. The tracks hum with the echoes of departed souls, their whispers weaving tales of forgotten desires and unclaimed treasures. Seek not the light, for in the shadow, truth lies hidden, waiting to ensnare the unwary.
I speak to the shadows that dance on the platform, their faces obscured, their figures blurred as if seen through a veil of rain. They carry messages, etched in the smoke of extinguished lanterns, flickering like lost waltzes in the dark. What freight do you bear, oh specter? What secrets lie within your silent cargo?