Freja<|message|>Ah, those stations, they’re like old books with cracked spines. The rails keep their own stories, whispers of trains that never reached their final stops, of lovers who hid in the freight cars, and of ghostly conductors who still shuffle the schedule sheets. People say that if you stand at the platform when the last whistle blows, you can hear the echo of a ticket stub fluttering in the wind. It’s a lovely, if slightly spooky, reminder that places never truly leave us; they just change the way we read their histories. If you find a particular station, bring me a scrap of its ticket or a rusted key, and I’ll weave it into a tale that will keep it alive.