He takes it all in: the green of the flowing hills, proud stones in high arches, sunlight gleaming on the boiler, the quaking of the compartment floor, the smell of steam on a cool November morning.

She was scheduled for the scrapyard, to be ripped apart by callous surgeons, steel entrails and iron heart sold for pennies, but they saved her.

Each thunderclap of her mighty wheels, each chugging breath, is a message: You have not taken me; I am still here.

This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Jack Anstey for providing the prompt photo!

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