Rail

The car doors slam shut with more force than usual. The metal echoes dully through the empty train. The train starts moving immediately, without pause, without the usual gentle acceleration. The light in the car is dim and cold. The lamps don't flicker welcomingly as before—they burn steadily, almost lifelessly. There are no stations outside. No city. Only a dark, endless void, rushing by ever faster. You barely have time to sit down before the speed increases sharply. The floor beneath your feet vibrates more than usual. The rhythm of the wheels is heavy, tense, as if every movement is filled with suppressed anger. You say his name. There's no answer. Only the rumble deepens. Louder. The train accelerates even faster. The light dims for a moment, then comes back on—colder than before. He hears you. But he ignores you. Once, it slowed down if you spoke softly. Once, the lights flickered softly, as if answering. Now, nothing. Only speed. The car trembles slightly, as if holding something back inside. The doors don't open. There are no announcements. There are no stops. You sense: it's not taking you randomly. Not along a route. But where it has decided. The rhythm of the wheels grows sharper every time you try to speak. As if every word only angers it more. It remembers. It's hurt. And now it doesn't want to talk. It only rushes forward, faster and faster, taking you to a place where you must understand why exactly it's angry with you.