Work Text:
He took the same route every day. Sometimes he met new people, sometimes he encountered trouble. But the route was always the same.
At first the rails felt new, and each station was different. Over time his wheels aligned to every bump and jolt, and he could stop at a station with his eyes closed if he wanted.
His days were structured. He set off in the morning and returned in the evening. By now he had encountered all kinds of weather on his route, and knew how to handle it all.
If he was proud of one thing, it was his punctuality.
But there were no more surprises.
He had wanted to come out of his station yard and see the world. And he had done. He had been given more chances and travelled more rails than any engine had a right to, and his smokebox was full of memories he could revisit at any time. But sometimes they made him feel sad. He wanted those experiences back in all their full, real glory, each one separate from the others instead of the blended picturescape they'd become.
Change is inevitable, the humans say. Without change, there is nothing. But after you've seen and done everything you wanted to see and do, what is there left but that old, familiar route?
Yearning. There is still yearning.
There's still a need to see what's around the next corner, even if it's a field you've seen a million times. And there is still change, in the passing clouds, the changing seasons, the human shift from one generation to another.
There was a little boy who used to wave at him every morning from the bridge. Thomas remembered when the boy had been so small his mother had to hold him up so he could see over the edge. A few years later he would slouch up alone with his school tie undone and his satchel slung over one shoulder. Then, when he was older, he came with friends, sometimes a girl, and the wave became a quick flick of the hand.
There was never time to stop and talk, but Thomas whistled anyway.
And then one day, the boy was gone, and in his place, a man. A man who was busy all the time and never really present anymore. But still Thomas whistled, and sometimes the man waved.
Then one day, out of the blue, the man appeared on the platform with a small boy of his own.
“This is Thomas. We've known each other for years. And now you get to meet him too.”
Every once in a while, even the oldest routine takes a little detour. Joy comes back. The old fields look fresh again. A new little boy starts waving from a bridge, and Thomas whistles, loud and long.