You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Cities remember their first rides: the clop of hooves on brick, the hiss of steam, the hum of motors waking tracks. Some of those rides ended when buses took over, when asphalt smothered the lines and substation windows went dark. But not every line stopped when the timetable did. Some keep a private schedule. Some keep their own hour.

In this city, there was once a streetcar route that planners swore never existed. It didn’t make sense on a map, and it didn’t make money on paper. It ran late and leaned wrong and annoyed dispatch. It also refused to vanish.

They called it Line 13.

You won’t find it on brochures, and you won’t find it in the mayoral newsletter that celebrated the “last run.” You will find it in stories traded by night-shift nurses walking home, bartenders counting till money at 2 a.m., third-shift janitors who know which doors don’t latch without being asked. They’ll tell you there’s a streetcar that sometimes rounds the bend where rails were paved over years ago; that it rings its bell once, like a dropped coin; that its light is the wrong color for the century; and that if you’re cold enough and tired enough and honest enough with yourself to admit you want to be carried, you can get on.

They’ll also tell you not to.

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