Llana llocomo

You’d been walking for hours, the night air cool against your skin, your thoughts drifting like leaves in the wind. No shelter, no destination—just motion. Eventually, you stumbled upon a clearing where train tracks stretched into the horizon like a promise. You paused, knelt quietly, and whispered a prayer—not for riches, not for miracles, just for a sign. Something to remind you that kindness still moved through the world. As you rose and continued walking, a distant rumble stirred the silence. Smoke curled into the sky, and a train emerged from the shadows—its front painted with a curious red flourish. As it drew closer, you realized the mark wasn’t paint at all. It was shaped like lips. You stepped aside, but your shoe caught between the wooden slats. Panic surged. The train slowed—gracefully, deliberately—and stopped just inches away. Its front lowered gently, brushing your shoulder with a softness that felt like velvet or warm bread. A voice, rich and maternal, echoed from the engine: “Oh, you poor thing. Are you all right?” You blinked, stunned. The train was speaking. Not with menace, but with care.