Everybody remembered the Great Crash of '27. The crash that killed the line. There was soot for weeks after. Old folks coughing. Trucks to take away all the bodies.
When the ravine finally stopped smoking, Eli climbed down. He had to know. Was this Number 847? Big John Sable? If only his Grandpaw was here to see.
Two days later, he was back with soap and polish. As he cleared away the broken branches, he discovered a line of sorts beneath the iron wheels. Well, almost a line.
The footplate rumbled beneath his hiking shoes, and as he looked out, he no longer saw the tomb of the familiar valley. Only Big John Sable. Gleaming and ready. With the hiss of old steam and even older memories, number 847 was waking again, slowly meandering towards stations previously unseen.
(Been so long since I last shared one of these, it seems that #FlashFriday is no longer a thing. Or rather it has morphed into another thing. Nevermind. Hope you all enjoy this story - Carine)
Image credit: hpgruesen on Pixabay
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