4 Stations Of The Year ⇒

The train shudders back into motion, but the carriage is quieter now. Leaves rattle against the windows like postcards from goodbye. At this stop, you must leave something behind: a scarf, a name, a version of yourself. The air smells of smoke and cider and memory. Those who board here carry empty baskets. They understand: to go forward, you must unload.

The platform is soft with mud and petals. A train arrives wrapped in mist and the scent of rain. You step on without a ticket, only a heart cracked open like a seed. The windows steam with green anticipation. This is the station of beginning again, where even your shadows grow leaves. 4 stations of the year

The train stops in a field of gold and haze. Time slows to the buzz of a single bee. You get off to stand in the overwhelming light— everyone is here, laughing too loud, skin warm, thirst endless. This station has no clock. The departure board reads: Eventually. You learn to love the waiting. The train shudders back into motion, but the

The final announced stop. No one speaks. The ground is iron and frost. You step out into a cathedral of silence. The train waits—but does not leave. Here, the stars are closer. Here, the trees are bones telling stories. You build no fire. You build no house. You stand still enough to hear the earth turn. And in that stillness, spring stirs— not as a promise, but as a root. The air smells of smoke and cider and memory