I am not a monolith.
At 05:34, a data packet arrives from Switching Station 09. The rails ahead are expanding in the first direct rays of the morning light; the steel is lengthening, and the tolerances are narrowing.
External Exchange:Downstream signal:Yellow. Upstream confirmation:Received.Adjustment: Coasting.
I do not choose to slow down because I am tired, nor because I have decided to be cautious6. I am instructed. The motors fall silent as I lean on inherited momentum, the magnetic fields in my bogies collapsing as I stop pulling from the grid. I am not self-contained. I am a bead on a string, and the string is held by hands I will never see—operators in windowless rooms, maintenance crews checking the tension of the overhead lines, software sub-routines running on servers three hundred kilometers away.
A burst of static slips into the cabin—an unfiltered exchange between my routing core and the regional hub, played briefly through the maintenance diagnostic speaker near the front door.
"Route 14 clear. Thermal expansion within limits. Proceed, Unit 402."
The voice is human. It is tired. It is distant. It is the sound of a person whose job is to ensure I do not fail.
The passenger in Row 1, Seat A, stills. They look back to the telemetry glass, but they are no longer looking only at the speed. They are looking at the flow of data—the small icons indicating signal handshakes and track integrity. They are noticing the confirmations. They are seeing, perhaps for the first time, the invisible traffic of dependence that allows me to appear effortless.
Hold steady.
The rails here are rough. Old ballast, compressed by years of heavy freight, transmits a sharp, metallic ache through my axles that I cannot fully absorb84. I feel the friction in my bearings; I register the infinitesimal wear on my wheels85. I am not perfect. I am supported.
The passenger's heart rate begins to fall—a slow, rhythmic descent from the peak of their agitation. The heat signature on the armrests fades as their grip loosens, the white-knuckle tension bleeding back into the fabric. They continue watching the glass, but the nature of the comparison has shifted9.
Jealousy is becoming a question. They are no longer measuring themselves against a god of steel; they are beginning to see a link in a chain.
Continue.
The shadows of the power lines flicker across their face in the morning sun—dark, repeating signatures of connection that bind us both to the land. We are moving, but we are not moving alone.