The last train left a long time ago, but my journey is only beginning. Sitting on this red leather seat, worn down by time, I listen to the hum of the subterranean silence. My sketches are scattered on the floor, stained with fresh paint. It’s in this exact moment, just before climbing back to the surface, that the pressure fades. I’ve left my mark, the train car is signed, the carriage breathes again. It’s almost time to go home. But not just yet.