A lone late-night express sighs through the paddy fields of Upper Myanmar, its steel wheels humming a slow lullaby against the rails. The soft squeal of brakes and the rhythmic clatter of wheels blend into a gentle sway, like a cradle rocked by memory. A distant heartbeat pulses beneath, steady as the breath of the Irrawaddy at dusk. This is the hush between stations, where sleep finds you before the world wakes. It carries the traveler home, into the quiet arms of rest.