I love train journeys—not the express ones, but the ones that stop at every station. At those small, cabin-like stations, it’s rare for a traveler to board, and even rarer for someone to get off. The station attendant lowers the signal board, removes his cap, opens the door of the "cabin," and steps inside.

I enjoy traveling alone. When I can’t venture outward, I retreat inward, gazing out the window as though it’s a screen. (Who said the train is the most wonderful thing a child could dream of?)

Field after field passes by. A single tree stands in the middle, like an open umbrella. Sheep graze here and there. Further on, there are houses with small gardens enclosed by fences—some wire, some reeds, some stones. A shovel leans against the wall of a shed with a sheet-metal roof. An old bicycle lies abandoned in a corner.

Wild herbs and plants grow along the tracks. There are piles of gravel, bricks, cardboard, and discarded car tires. Stacks of rails gleam in the sunlight.

And then, more fields. Tall, bare poplars stand guard over a solitary house. Forests give way to meadows, scattered tree trunks, plowed fields, barren land, and wastelands. Birds suddenly take flight, startled by some unseen force. No people, only the sky filled with white and gray clouds. A single ray of sunlight cuts through, like a spotlight illuminating green fields and a pale white plum tree.

Two poles lean against each other for support. Rusty rails stretch endlessly. An abandoned house, roofless and overgrown with climbing plants, comes into view—a melancholy sight, like death at work.

The train keeps moving, always advancing.

I hand my ticket to the conductor and turn back to the window.

The passing scenes remind me of other places, other times. The electrical wires run alongside the train, rushing away with a sharp zap, as if keeping pace with my memories. They seem to carry those moments forward, suspending them like unpublished photographs...