The tracks had, somehow, an important role for me. I used to walk over them to go to school and to come back home, because the tracks were, literally, a few steps from my door. I used to play between the wooden boards, jumping over the metal rails, with one foot, with two feet. The winner of the courage test was to be the last one to jump away when the train was coming with its quick march and its bang. It was a dangerous game, we knew that, but we were little children and there were so many things we didn’t fear.

The machine used to wake me up every day. Every time at seven in the morning, it honked the horn with punctuality. Then I used to get up, get dressed and have breakfast was fast as I could, so I could go to school, which was a few houses away. But I had to run before the train to get on time. It was a race, between it and me, and I didn’t always win. And I watched it go by and go by, with its cars full of flour and corn, until it became less usual and less punctual. One day, it stopped coming and the only thing left of the tracks is its corpse.



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