There used to be a town here. And when the mist rolled down from the mountain to blanket it in a yellow morning glow, wives would roll over and poke their husbands until they got up, put on their shoes, and headed down the hole.

The train would stop, once a week on Saturday. For nearly an hour before it arrived, the rumble shook the town, calling the men to the surface. It only stopped for ten minutes, long enough to add the new coal cars to the end of its load, before rumbling off into the distance.

As it left the platform, the boys would run along beside, pretending that this was the week they would jump on board, taking off for distant places, exciting people, adventure . . . but then their mothers would call dinner, and the opportunity was lost.

Some mining towns end in a flash of poison and fire. This one ended in a long, whimpering sigh as the coal played out and the people left, two here, six there, until there was nothing left but empty houses and lonely pebbles fallen on the railway.

But the earth remembers.

Every Saturday, as the mist shrouds the town in a yellow glow, the ground rumbles with the echo of the train. In empty houses, lights come on and follow the path to the mine. At the platform, the rails screech with the memory of the train’s whistle.

As it departs, little lights run as though they might be able to catch a ride out of town—but morning catches them.

And they dissolve into mist.

"Rails"