There’s a station that, by day, feels forgotten even by its own timetable. The boards flicker with a delay that doesn’t belong to trains but to time itself, like someone paused a song and never came back. At night, though, something shifts.
They say the ghost of Gram Parsons wanders the platforms, but not the way you’d expect. He’s still wearing his famous nudie suit… except now it has become a sheet. Not the cliché white ghost-drape, but something stranger: a spectral fabric embroidered with faded light, where old rhinestones glimmer like distant, exhausted stars. A stage outfit turned relic, as if the desert had learned how to haunt.
(to be continued)
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