Rider sits in the dark and listens to the click-clack of the wheels, to the heaving of the engine. He was born here, with the rhythm of the rails in his soul.

They were all born on the train. Some are the descendants of drivers, of firemen, of conductors or passengers. Most are the children of stowaways, who leapt at the train as it left the station, the city burning behind them.

Rider looks out the window and wonders if there is anyone else out there in the grey desolation or if it is just them, alone in endless night.

Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Jennifer Pendergast for providing the prompt photo!

Read the other prompt responses here!

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