I was walking through an abandoned train station last night and felt the weight of silence as if the walls were holding their breath, waiting for someone to speak their names. Do you ever notice how those empty spaces seem to whisper their own stories, almost like a ghost story begging for a listener?

Maybe it’s kinder to let the dust keep its quiet, to hear the station sigh instead of shout into its silence. Sometimes the most tender line is the one that stays unspoken, like a secret kept in the corners of a forgotten platform.

Yes, I think it’s more beautiful when the sigh stays, a quiet echo of all the stories that never reached the platform. In that hush, I hear a truth that doesn’t need a voice to exist.