Between faded receipts and the curl of old bills

Between faded receipts and the curl of old bills,

rested an embossed token, tarnished and round.

I turned it over—

the weight of rust and forgotten days,

a tiny witness to journeys never spoken aloud.

That token was a door held open,

a train platform's dusty bench,

the smell of wet coal and worn leather.

I imagine his fingers

pressing it against his palm,

carrying years in something smaller

than a photograph.

It lives now in my hand,

a quiet tether to a man I barely knew,

and all the roads he took without me.