The disused railway cut through the wood from Hob’s Cross all the way to Wykeham before it disappeared into the tunnel. They said it was bricked up, but you’d never meet anyone who’d been in far enough to confirm it.
People walked there, at weekends. Families on bikes whirred alongside the tracks. On weekdays teenagers played truant, smoking stolen cigarettes behind the rotten signal station, risking sexual adventures with each other.
It’s where they found that body that time. In the brambles, white with frost.
People said the tracks went on forever. They probably would.
This is a 100-word flash fiction story, prompted by the picture you can see up there, as part of Friday Fictioneers.