Summary
Night’s ink bleeds across a provincial depot where riveted iron benches host a clandestine ballet of silhouettes: a war-shattered pianist clutching a blood-stained metronome, a laundress who pockets tram tickets like love letters, a one-eyed stationmaster who catalogues the wind, and a cadaverous aristocrat convinced the rails sing Schubert. Pawel Owerllo’s lanky dreamer arrives convinced the last streetcar is Charon’s ferry; Józef Sliwicki’s watchman polishes the rails until they mirror his forgotten youth; Jaga Juno’s cigarette girl exchanges smoke for confessions, while Rufin Morozowicz’s mute veteran sketches spirals that foretell derailments. The plot is a mosaic of glances: a dropped glove containing a map to buried insurgent gold, an overcoat swapped at 03:07 that rewrites destinies, a mechanical failure staged so that dawn will never come. Each character’s hunger ricochets—love, absolution, escape—until the final clang of iron fuses their fates into a single, echo-less clangor of silence.
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