I have spent hours wandering abandoned train yards, chasing the perfect shot. Rusted nails, bolts, and scraps rest in the dirt like relics of another age. Rust begins when iron meets water and oxygen, an alchemy etched into the earth’s chemistry. Each flake of oxide is a ghost of the surface it once was, shaped by time and the quiet current of electrons. Rain, salt, and acid quicken the change, drawing deep reds, burnt oranges, and ochres from the metal’s core. Rust is texture. It is memory made visible. Its colours tell stories only patience can translate.