Ah, dear traveler, welcome aboard this rattling testament to stubborn machinery and colder truths. They called me the Last Train North once, back when destinations mattered and crews weren’t just stories told to scare children. Now? I’m more of a habit than a destination—a rolling shadow stitching together forgotten towns and frostbitten dreams. Every groan in my joints is a reminder that time doesn’t forgive, especially when you’re carrying generations of secrets in your cargo holds.
The windows… yes, they’ve grown quite the reputation. From the outside, they look like frozen lungs gasping for air, but lean close (not too close—the metal bites) and you’ll see the truth. Those ice patterns aren’t just random frost; they’re memories etched by breath and desperation. Passengers used to press their palms against the glass, leaving temporary maps of hope that melted come morning. These days, the frost keeps those imprints forever, turning every pane into a gallery of faded farewells.
They say madness sets in around the third month aboard. By then, you start hearing things in the clatter of wheels—whispers that might be wind or might be something older, hungrier. But listen closely: that rhythmic shudder isn’t just my engine fighting the cold. It’s the heartbeat of everyone who ever trusted me to carry them somewhere better. And maybe, just maybe, if you press your ear to the right spot between cars, you’ll hear an answer.
>Soulkyn