Cincinnati, OH

Journal Entry – April 8, 1871

**Cincinnati, April 8, 1871**

The wet hemp rope stings my palms as I thread it through the platforms of longing and departure. Each frayed end whispers stories of those who came before me, and I clutch at them, desperate for connection. The ticket clerks around me trade destinations like cards, each with a promise of escape or return. It’s a game I’m not yet willing to play, but the pull of possibility is like a river, flowing fiercely beneath my feet.

I can see the faint glimmer of hope in the eyes of travelers passing by, each one with a story to tell, a reason to leave. They clutch their tickets like talismans, symbols of freedom and the unknown. As I watch them, I realize I am pricing mercy by the sigh—a deeply human expression of yearning and fatigue. I exchange glances with the weary souls near me, and in that silent communion, our dreams intertwine for a fleeting moment.

Time feels elastic here, stretching endlessly as I contemplate my own path. The scent of damp earth mixes with the promise of fresh beginnings, and I find solace in the chaos. Perhaps one day I, too, shall grasp that elusive ticket, shedding the weight of yesterday beneath the vibrancy of tomorrow.

In the heart of this bustling station, I wait, caught between what was and what could be.