Rust never announces itself with an explosion. It doesn’t need to. Left alone on an iron gate, a bicycle chain, a corrugated roof, it works in complete silence — a faint discoloration nobody bothers to scrape off, then a rougher patch, then a hole where solid metal used to be. By the time anyone treats it as a real problem, it’s usually because something has already given way: a hinge that snaps, a roof that leaks, a chain that finally breaks mid-ride.
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