The Bridge that Loves Trains
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byop. no room for swag. a train passed by up ahead as i scouted this area for a good place to hide one. i knew as soon as i heard the whistle what i had to do. Pretty place, hope you catch a train while you are here. it was 215pm when mine went by. maybe its on the same schedule every day.
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About seventy-five yards from the railroad crossing, tucked between tall grass and a slow, whispering creek, there sits a little bridge.
It’s not much to look at—just a short stretch of weathered wood and bolts that have seen better days—but it listens. Every day, it listens.
Because every time the warning bells start ringing at the crossing, the bridge perks up.
The ground hums first. Then the rails begin to sing. And soon enough, with a thunder that shakes its very planks, the train comes barreling through—loud, proud, unstoppable. The bridge can’t see it directly, not really, but it feels it. Every rumble. Every passing wheel. Every echo fading into the distance.
And oh, how it loves those trains.
At night, when the world quiets and the creek slows to a gentle trickle, the bridge lets itself dream.
It imagines what it would be like to be part of the tracks—to feel the full weight of the engine roll right over it, to be needed in that way. To be where the action is. Not just nearby… but there.
Sometimes it even shifts a little when no one’s looking—just a creak, just a hopeful stretch—like maybe, just maybe, one day it could inch its way closer.
But come morning, it’s still right where it’s always been.
And that’s okay.
Because even from seventy-five yards away, it still gets the music. Still gets the thunder. Still gets to be part of something bigger, in its own quiet way.
And if you stand on it at just the right moment—when the bells ring and the rails begin to hum—you can feel it too.
The little bridge, holding its breath…
…dreaming of trains.
Additional Hints
(Decrypt)
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