This train stops at the West Station, a desolate station that used to be a flag-stop station but has now been modified for regularization.
This station has no electronic screens, no loudspeakers announcing train numbers; instead, a staff member holds up a sign with the train number and calls it out with a megaphone, giving a sense of returning to the last century. In the fast-paced life of the 21st century, it adds a different hue to the experience.
To board this train, people need to pass through a narrow underground passage. The passage is cramped and low, with smooth cement walls covered in spots. In the corners, water drips down cracks, forming a shallow stream of muddy water flowing along the edge of the steps. The steps have been worn into a slight curve from the constant foot traffic, and near the middle, the bottom few steps have been flattened, accumulating some dust in the depressions. As one passes through the passage, the gaps in the ceiling grating leave only a sliver of daylight, with dust floating in the beam of light. Because this is a branch line, almost all the trains running are freight trains, with numerous tracks crisscrossing like rusty veins winding around the station area, and the only platform is squeezed lonely between these tracks. There are no signs, only a wooden station nameplate, its paint chipped and the lettering slightly blurred, with the ground covered in cemented gravel, small stones often lifted by the wind and falling back into the cracks. Several tracks extend parallel, the gravel between the sleepers and rails has been flattened by the passing wheels, the surface of the rails gleaming coldly, and the edge of the platform marked with a yellow warning line, which has faded from years of foot traffic. Everything here is filled with echoes of history, winding and lonely, evoking a long-lost sense of desolation, as if traversing back to an abandoned subway platform or a dream deep within some memory.
Accompanied by the sound of clanging, the train slowly arrives at the platform. Its body is a greenish-blue, with paint peeling to reveal the base color. The windows are square, framed in black metal, and the glass has been dusty for years. The doors slide open on rollers, leaving behind rust marks of varying depths on the tracks. Between the carriages, they are connected by rubber bumpers, with cracks appearing on the surface of the straps.
In one corner of the platform, a young couple stands with their backpacks. The backpacks are made of woven canvas, with worn corners; the scarf is made of fine fabric, with neat edges. Their silhouettes seem out of place in the environment, yet they walk calmly within it. I understand them, for I am like them, not compelled by the journey to take this train, but specifically to experience such a journey, to slow down a little, even more so, in this suffocatingly fast-paced era. Perhaps because of this, they walk particularly quietly, not speaking, nor in a hurry to board, just taking one step at a time, as if listening to the breath of the railway. They do not belong to the past, yet they do not completely belong to the present; they are people who come with the future, trying to understand those who silently supported this land from within a green train carriage.
Some say that such trains should have been eliminated long ago. The dilapidated carriages, the hardwood seats, and after a short journey, one would cough up the taste of coal. But it is precisely this train that, over the years, has taken countless children from the mountains, transporting heavy sacks, cotton, apples, and hope time and again to the plains and cities. This is not just a means of transportation; it is the flow of memory. I sit by the window, the glass beside me already foggy, and a scratch of my nail can peel away a layer of frost-like moisture. As the train starts, the scenery outside flashes by, revealing the dilapidated outskirts of a city—those half-finished buildings, abandoned factories, and rusted water towers, like scars that a city cannot hide, gently brushed by this train, quietly erased.
The scenery outside gradually recedes, accompanied by a series of silver high-speed trains whizzing past from afar, clean and sharp, like a streak of light cutting through the sky. That symbolizes another direction of this era: speed, efficiency, technology, carrying the expectations of another kind of people. Meanwhile, our green train still sways along, powered by a diesel engine, traversing the Gobi and hills, following the railway forgotten by most.
This train is not in a hurry, nor does it consider costs; it stubbornly follows its own trajectory, like a ray of light in the cracks of time, illuminating those who still live quietly, and also illuminating the young couple sitting by the window. They are watching the scenery outside, and the scenery is watching them. They may not know the weight on their shoulders, but at this moment, their silence has already responded to the future.
The sky outside gradually darkens, and the western dusk paints the world in a calm gray-orange. In the distance, the mountain shadows stretch, like an old earth elder crouching silently, watching this old train pass by. It is not noisy, nor dazzling, but like the tail sound of a history, slowly elongating, echoing softly in the wind.
I ride such a train in the northwest, commemorating the Chengkun Railway built by the people of the southwest many years ago.
This article is updated by Mix Space to xLog. The original link is https://fmcf.cc/posts/Ode/A_Train_To_Past