The tractor heading south broke down before dawn. The smell of diesel mixed with dew hung thick in the air, like rust caught in the throat. The woman in the flat cap lifted the hood; a hiss of steam hit her face. She wiped sweat from her brow and shrugged at Samira. "Old bones gave out. Thirty kilometers left. On your own now."
The sky lightened to the grey-blue of a crab shell. At the edge of the fields lay a disused narrow-gauge railway, knee-high foxtail grass growing between the sleepers. An old steam locomotive stood on a siding, its tender rusted a deep crimson, like peeled fruit. Inside the cab, a white-haired old man tapped a wheel with a wrench, the lazy rhythm echoing crisply in the morning air.
"Where to?" The old man looked up, his voice raspy as wind through a chimney.
"South of Prague," Samira adjusted the mailbag on her shoulder.
The old man grinned, gap-toothed and unexpectedly kind. "Perfect timing. Just out for a southern stroll. Hop on. Coal'll last till noon."
Karim's eyes widened at his first steam engine. He reached out to touch the hot cylinder, only to have his hand gently swatted away by the man's grimy cotton glove. "Hot. Blisters."
The whistle sighed long and low, the engine puffing white steam like an old dragon sneezing. Wheels met rails with a slow, rhythmic *clank-clank*, the tempo of a lullaby. Samira sat on the open flatcar behind the tender, legs dangling over the side, watching the morning mist tear open before the engine, revealing golden waves of wheat. The wind carried the sweetness of sun-baked stalks, as if ripe orchard apples had crossed mountains to find them.
The old man introduced himself as Anton. He'd run mail on this line in his youth. The narrow gauge, he said, was old Habsburg bone, used for hauling sugar beets after the war, then abandoned when the beets stopped coming. Now it was his private toy. "No tickets checked. No papers asked," he added, tapping the mailbag with his wrench. "But that bag of yours… looks like it's addressed to the past."
Samira smiled, offering no explanation. She pulled the blank postcard from her bag—Ilyas's penciled wick still on the back, the front empty. She thought for a moment, then wrote with her pen:
*"To all names still on the road—*
*We scattered in firelight, reunited by steam.*
*Next stop: South of Prague, where hearth smoke and apple blossoms bloom together.*
*—Samira & Karim, 2025.7.17"*
She wedged the card into a crack in the cab's windscreen, letting wind and coal smoke stamp it.
Before noon, the train wound through low hills. On a ridge, the skeletal remains of a windmill stood like giant fish bones spearing the blue sky. Anton blew the whistle—two short bursts, a greeting to an old friend. Children suddenly spilled out from below the windmill, waving little red flags, each painted with the same south-pointing compass needle.
They chased the train, their laughter shredded by the wheels only to be instantly reassembled by the wind. Karim leaned out, waving his cap back at them. A curly-haired girl threw her flag high; it landed in Samira's lap, warm from the sun. Embroidered in the corner: *Welcome Home.*
The train stopped at a nameless halt. The platform held only a single bench, its back carved with *1947-2024*. Anton jumped down and tapped the bench's iron leg with his wrench. "Last mailbag I delivered, right here. Winter that year. Sent off the last sugar beets. Sent off myself too."
He pulled out an old pocket watch. Inside the case was a faded photo—a young Anton beside a woman in a trench coat standing before the engine. The woman held a baby. The rust-red locomotive was unmistakably theirs. The woman's eyes held a faint resemblance to Samira's mother.
"She went south," Anton murmured. "Never came back."
Samira handed back the watch. Her fingertip brushed the inscription inside the case: *To the south, always.* She understood then: this rusted track was never exile. It was homecoming—for Anton, for her, for all who wrote their names in ash.
The whistle blew again—three long notes this time, farewell and invitation. Anton pressed a paper bag of apples into her hands. "For the road. Sweet."
The train eased forward. The children waved as they ran alongside. Anton stood still, his shadow stretching long in the sun, like an unbroken rail. Samira gave an apple to Karim. She bit into hers; juice dripped onto the postcard, spreading a faint red stain—like a postmark, or a tear.
The train rolled south, south. Wind blew from the wheat fields, carrying earth, hearth smoke, and the scent of a summer not yet named. Samira clenched the apple core in her hand—five brown seeds nestled inside, like five stars waiting to land.
Next stop: South of Prague. Where hearth smoke and apple blossoms bloom together.