Who slows down anymore? Winter unfurls outside the mocănița window like a long forgotten letter, edges yellowed, meaning intact. Steam exhales toward a colorless sky, thick as a priest’s blessing, while fir trees march past with the solemnity of old soldiers. Bridges are crossed one by one, each creak a whispered agreement between gravity, iron, and faith. This is not transport, it is a winter rite, deeply Romanian, stubbornly indifferent to haste. These narrow gauge beasts were never meant for