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“Do you want to hear more about the railworks?" Toby’s paws fluttered, little sparks of excitement he couldn’t hold in. "I—I can explain them. I know everything. I’ve studied all the Track-Tredda systems.”
There had never been a universe in which I would tell him no.
“Yeah,” I said, sitting beside him. “Tell me.”
His whole body lit up.
“So! First thing,” he began, voice lifting, “They chew the rails and breathe steam. The manuals say that. I like that phrasing.” His fingers fluttered faster. “The engine belly is called a Firelung. When the Firelung is burning steady, it makes a soft rumble right under your feet. That means it’s happy. If it coughs, that’s called a Fog-Coff—and you never ignore a Fog-Coff.”
I watched him as he talked. He always spoke like the world made more sense when he could name its pieces.
“What about the rest of it?” I encouraged. He brightened even more.
“The Treader, thats the top part, it rolls on NashWheelz,” he said, spreading his hands to shape an invisible circle. “Teeth on teeth. That’s what the little gaps are called. The wheels run across the tracks. If the Veins dry out, you hear a screech. That means they need Slip-Sap. It’s this sticky black grease that smells awful, but it keeps the rails from crying.” He scrunched his nose. “It gets on everything. But it works.”
I nodded, fascinated, and he leaned closer, pulled forward by his own momentum.
“And the coupler—okay, this is important,” he insisted, eyes huge and earnest. “You have to line the teeth first. Nice and perfect. Then you push. Not slam, not smack, not whack—just a gentle shove. And then you say ‘click.’ Out loud.” His expression turned dead serious. “If you don’t say ‘click,’ the coupler knows. And it hates being rushed.”
I laughed softly, and he flushed with pleased energy, feet tapping faster against the crate.
“Go on,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“The whistle is how the trains talk to each other. One whistle for clear track, two for slow roll, three for ‘something is wrong and I don’t like it!’ When the whistle echoes on the tracks at night, it feels great."
He paused for half a second, just long enough for one small flutter of his paws. Then he continued, a little faster, as if the words had been waiting in him.
“And when you ride at night, you can feel the tracks. Under your feet and up to your ribs it rattles. It’s patterned, and steady, and it never lies. I like the sound it makes.”
My heart softened at the honesty in his voice.
“It sounds beautiful,” I told him.
He went still, pleasantly overwhelmed. Then whispered, “You really think so?”
“I do. Please, keep sharing with me,” I said.
His shoulders eased, his smile turned shy and glowing, and his thumbs tapped a happy rhythm on his knees.
“I will,” he said, breathless and sure. “There’s so much more. I want to tell you everything.”
And I knew he would.
Toby stepped up onto the platform first, brisk and eager.
“Come on,” he said, voice already brightening. “We’ll wake her up. The tracks sound better at night.”
I climbed up behind him, and he opened the cabin door. A strong smell of warm oil and cold steel greeted me. Not harsh—rather lived-in and familiar. His shoulders bounced with anticipation, and he pressed his palm to the ignition panel.
“Listen,” he whispered.
When he turned the crank, the engine roared to life, then softened into a low, steady purr. The vibration traveled up through the floor and into my legs, settling into my bones. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hum run through him like a grounding current.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Hear it? She’s waking up. She likes running at night.”
He moved to the controls, and I watched the way he touched everything carefully, precise, almost reverent. He pulled a lever, and the train eased forward, NashWheelz clicking into motion. The tracks made a soft metallic note above us, and he smiled proud, like he’d tuned the world himself.
As the train picked up speed, the sounds layered together. He looked back at me.
“Sit here. You feel it better close to the floor.”
I lowered myself onto the metal grate beside him. The vibration was much stronger there. Not violent—just present, like a heartbeat under my palms. I pressed my hand to the floor; he did the same, his fingers just brushing mine.
“That’s the hum she makes,” he said softly. “It’s always the same. Left wheel, right wheel, Firelung breath. It doesn’t surprise you. It tells you what’s coming before it comes.”
He rocked slightly with the movement, a self-soothing sway that matched the rail’s pulse. His eyes were half-lidded, content, lost in the soundscape only he truly understood. I watched him for a moment, struck by how deeply he felt the machinery—like it was alive to him.
“What does it feel like to you?” I asked.
He answered without hesitation. “Safe.”
The word was simple, but it landed heavy.
The train rolled into open night, far from depot lights, and the stars spread over us like scattered sparks. He reached forward and pulled the whistle. One clear, long note that echoed through the dark.
“Clear track,” he murmured. “Just us.”
The steady rail hum filled the quiet that followed. He sat beside me on the grate, knees pulled close, hands tapping a quiet rhythm on his legs, perfectly synchronized with the chug of the train.
“I like sharing this with someone,” he said after a while, eyes still on the rails rushing ahead through the front window. “It feels easier. Better. When you’re here.”
I rested my head lightly against his shoulder. His breath caught. He was surprised, but not unhappy. Slowly, carefully, he leaned his head against mine, matching my stillness the way he matched rhythms.
Together, we listened. The NashWheelz drummed. The rails whispered their endless, steady lullaby. And Toby hummed with them softly, content, and perfectly in tune.