The train pulled out of the nameless station southbound as dusk, like a soaked curtain, slowly lowered over the fields. Samira cracked the window open. Evening air, thick with the scent of dried grass and damp earth, flooded the carriage. Karim sat on her lap, his forehead pressed to the glass, counting the telegraph poles flashing past. Every seventh pole, he turned back to smile at her, a silent confirmation: *We are truly going south.*
The carriage was old, the heating intermittent. A dim wall lamp cast light; a small moth battered itself against the shade, its shadow dancing on the seat like a flickering ember-star. Samira pulled the blank postcard from her mailbag—the back still held Ilyas's penciled lamp wick, the front now covered in her small, dense script:
*"First stop south—wheat fields and hearth smoke."*
She meant to post it at the next station, but her fingers brushed something hard in her pocket: the brass postmark stamp, polished smooth by time like a seed. The engraved coordinates on its edge pulsed warmly in her palm—*50°N, 20°E*, a station on an old Central European line, a place her mother had walked with her suitcase in her youth. She changed her mind. Pressing the stamp onto the bottom right corner of the postcard, it gave a soft *click*. The ink bloomed like a tiny, dark flower.
The next stop was "Oakville Station"—just two tracks and a red-brick waiting room. Dusk was deepening. Inside the waiting room, a kerosene lamp glowed, its cracked shade trembling around the flame. The attendant was a stooped old man, his cap pulled low, eyes hidden. He took the postcard without asking its origin, pulled another stamped card from a drawer, and handed it to her. The front showed the old platform. The back read:
*"Those heading south always rest here.*
*Fire in the stove. Soup on the table.*
*—Nameless Cape, Second Lamp South."*
The old man pointed to a small iron stove in the corner. Tomato soup bubbled gently on top, its sweet-tart scent sharp in the cool air. Karim stood on tiptoe to peer into the pot, his nose pink from the steam. The old man ladled out two bowls, handed them over, and tossed a chunk of pine wood into the firebox. The firelight danced on the wall, stretching their shadows long and thin, like threads reconnecting.
As they sipped the soup, a horn sounded outside—not a train, but an old tractor pulling a mail wagon converted from a carriage, its side painted with faded letters: "POST." The driver was a woman in a flat cap, a compass tattooed on her left forearm, its needle fixed permanently south. She jerked her chin at Samira. "Prague? Ride with us."
Karim hugged his empty bowl, his eyes shining like polished brass bells. Samira smoothed his hair and nodded. The old man clipped the postcard onto a string above the doorway beside others destined south. The wind stirred them, making a soft *tapping* sound, like countless small footsteps hurrying through the night.
As the tractor engine rumbled to life, Samira glanced back at the waiting room. The kerosene lamp swayed in the wind, a brighter sliver of light escaping through the crack in the shade, as if saying: *Go. Don't look back.* She tightened her grip on the mailbag. Inside, the ember-star pulsed warmly in her palm, like a star finally willing to land.
The tractor headed south, its taillights drawing two thin red lines across the fields. Karim leaned against her, softly humming their mother's song. The tune no longer strained northward. It flowed with the wind, with the hearth smoke, with the sweet-tartness of the tomato soup, heading south all the way. Ahead, lights began to appear in the distance, one by one, like countless lamps finally landing.