The morning mist is just beginning to lift across the mainland. The tracks hum with anticipation, metal warmed by the rising sun. A distant, powerful chuff echoes through the stillness — steady, deliberate, like a heartbeat in iron.

From the curve of the yard, a grand engine emerges.

He’s painted a flawless apple green, accented with gold and red, his metal gleaming as if he’d just rolled off the works floor. Twin tenders follow behind him, loaded and proud, trailing like the regalia of a monarch. His driving wheels — tall, clean, and strong — carry him forward with measured ease.

Then, a voice. Calm. Deep. Quietly confident.

“Flying Scotsman. And yes… the name does ring a bell, doesn’t it?”

He comes to a smooth stop beside the platform. His gaze is steady, observant — not boastful, but aware. Aware of who he is, and what he means.

“I was built for speed. For prestige. For the long haul. From London to Edinburgh, over hills and cities, through wars and eras long passed. And through it all — I endured.”

Steam hisses gently from his pistons.

“I’ve broken records. I’ve crossed oceans. I’ve returned from the scrapyard when others thought I was done. But I didn’t survive to be praised — I survived because I was made to matter.”

He glances down the line, as if already thinking of the miles ahead.

“There are newer engines now. Faster, some say. Flashier. But I wasn’t built to impress children with blinking lights. I was built to run. And I still do.”

With a low, resonant whistle, Flying Scotsman sets himself into motion once more. The sound of his wheels builds — rhythmic, steady, powerful. As he begins to vanish into the distance, his voice lingers just a moment longer:

“Now, if you’ll excuse me… I’ve got a schedule to keep.”