She grips the wheel like it’s the last solid thing in a world turned to mist. Fur collar up, hair painted the color of faded sunlight— She looks ahead, through a windshield scabbed with frost and regret. The city outside moves in slow motion, A canvas smeared with broken red, smudged grey, And the faint suggestion of better days. The engine coughs and growls, a tired beast dragging itself forward, A sound too human to ignore. Her face is set like stone, lips curled into something that might’ve been a smile— Once. It’s the look of someone who’s seen too much, Driven too far, And knows the road ends in the same place it began. The cold presses against the glass, Whispering promises she doesn’t want to hear. Another block, another mile, The world outside still playing dead, While she just drives— Not to escape, But because stopping would mean admitting the ghosts have caught up.