I wanted to say it was impossible — that my son had died that night, that I’d barely survived myself. But I couldn’t. I helped a boy get home, but when his mother saw me, she went pale and said, “It’s…
you?”
The boy looked up at me, and in his eyes, I saw the same expression I’d once seen before losing everything. The woman stepped closer. — Why did you come now?
— she whispered. I looked up at the sky. For a moment, it felt like everything was happening again.
The same rain. The same fear. — Maybe, — I said, — because some roads don’t end until you find out why you were meant to travel them.
She offered me coffee and invited me inside. I glanced at the road, then at her door, and thought that maybe this wasn’t a coincidence — that it was time to leave the past behind and go in…
I slowly got off my motorcycle and walked toward the house.
