Time sits at the bench of rain and learns rust’s grammar. The words are an oxide that scratches surface silence. Each letter is a crack, each rule a fold breathing in metal. Thus is born a slow tongue, where time teaches those who resist. And tells stories to the ear of things: nails, grates, silent wheels. The objects listen, lending an ear to the whisper of singing dust. Time unveils names of oxide, memories that return and fade. So rust remains, narrator among the objects that have listened.