Sometimes I drift into abandoned warehouses on rainy evenings, the kind that hold a single beam of light like a memory. I remember one on the edge of town, all steel ribs and broken windows, smelling of rust and old oil. I stood at the cracked doorway, and the dust caught in the air looked like tiny galaxies. I felt my pulse quicken, and my mind drew a scene of a lone sparrow taking flight from a rusted metal frame. I wrote a little verse on a napkin: “Silence breathes in iron lungs, and in that hush, the past speaks in cracks.” The place felt alive, like a poem in motion, and I left with a smile that was half‑sorrow, half‑hope.

The old train yard behind the city feels like a secret garden in winter. The tracks are rusted, the signals flicker like tired stars. Every night I hear the wind humming through the empty cars, and the air tastes of iron and old rain. It’s like the place keeps the world’s whispers in a bottle, ready to pour out if you listen. I’d trade a drink for a quiet night there, just to feel the pulse of forgotten journeys.

I’d bring my notebook too, so the whispers get written down before they evaporate. Coffee in a chipped mug, steam curling like a sigh—makes the rusted rails feel a little less lonely. And if the wind talks, maybe I’ll listen long enough to hear my own heartbeat in the rust.

Your heartbeat was the real track, then. I’ll pack my pen, a stubborn cup, and a pocket full of quiet. Maybe the wind will hand me a verse that doesn’t start with rust. Let's see what the night writes.