Chapter 9: Whistles in the Dirt

From Hurried Ascensions
by Esi Noire

The wind shifted. It didn’t blow…it *hummed*.

Low and mournful, the sound wrapped itself around Rene like steam rising from sun-warmed soil. She moved slowly, stepping across cracked earth and patches of wild grass that smelled like iron and honeysuckle.

Each step echoed with something deeper than sound.
A memory that didn’t belong to her.

*“You hear it, don’t you?”* said a voice.

Rene turned. A man stood near the blade. He was tall, lean, and wore a black overcoat like the ones shown in faded family photos. Double-breasted, too heavy for the weather. His face shimmered between generations, sometimes older than time, sometimes young like her brother.

“I…” she started. “Are you…?”

“I’m everyone who stayed too long,” he said. “And not long enough.”

Rene stepped closer. “This blade…what is it?”

He reached down and touched it.

“It’s a marker. Not of death, but of movement. Every time a soul was pushed off course… this struck the ground.”

The humming grew louder. Whistle tones curled through the soil.

Rene knelt. The hum vibrated through her bones. She placed her hand flat on the dirt and listened.

Beneath the surface, she heard train whistles.
But not from one line. Dozens. Hundreds.

Each one silenced mid-cry.

“This land,” the man whispered, “remembers every route that was denied. Every path cut short. Every child told to wait their turn and never called again.”

He looked at her, his eyes like deep time.

“You’re not here to ride. You’re here to reroute.”