The station’s fence line cracks under the weight
of drought. The farmer, calloused and silent,
plows the same fields his father did, but the
land has changed. The bore water runs thin. The
government’s new surveyor arrives with maps that
redraw the boundaries of ownership.
A letter slips under the farmhouse door. It’s
from a woman he hasn’t seen in twenty years,
asking for help. She’s in Melbourne, trapped in
a scheme tied to the new railway line. The
farmer packs his gear, leaves the wife and kids
behind.
The city is different. The streets hum with
electric trams. He finds her in a boarding house,
eyes hollow, speaking of a deal gone wrong. A
mining company promised land in exchange for
labor. Instead, they took it. The farmer’s name
is on the contract.
He returns to the station, but the surveyor is
gone. The fences are gone. A new road cuts
through the property, bulldozers tearing up the
soil. The farmer’s wife stands at the gate,
holding their youngest child. She says the
council came with papers. The land is now a
“development zone.”
He walks the perimeter, hands brushing the dust.
The old well is dry. The wind carries the sound
of distant thunder. He pulls a rusted revolver
from the shed, checks the chamber. The last
bullet is for the man who sold him out.
The farmer never speaks of the meeting. No one
sees him again. The station falls silent. The
town forgets his name. But the new road remains,
cutting through the land like a scar.
The government builds a depot nearby. Trains
come and go. The farmer’s son, now a man, works
on the tracks. He never asks about his father.
The land is gone. The past is buried. The future
is steel and smoke.
