The glass tells stories it shouldn’t— A face that wasn’t there, A voice that didn’t belong. Windshield smeared, Reality threadbare, Caught somewhere between arrival and escape. The driver grips the wheel, Eyes forward, knuckles white— But the mirror whispers back, A truth in fogged reflection: You’ve picked up something you can’t put down. In the rearview, red lights bleed Into the sandstorm ahead, And the passenger waits, Still. Watching.