Beneath the gnarled trees, missed by the care of the moon, the old tram waited with an empty sigh. Its rusted frame glimmered with a sheen of untold stories, chilling and alluring, whispering of destinations unknown, of flickering shadows within. But the air was still and the night thick, pressing tightly against the throat like an unwelcome embrace.
Each night, it came to this place—an unwelcome guest on forgotten tracks. Silently it hummed a tune only the brave sing, echoing through the winding backs of Newlands. If you listened closely, you could hear its whispers, a confessional of secrets lost in the folds of time.