It rolls forward— three busted wheels scraping the pavement, a cart piled high with nothing worth keeping. The figure leading it slouches like the end of a war: green mask smeared and cracked, jacket patched with a past no one asks about. Each step echoes in the frozen air, dull, relentless, like an old machine. Behind him, the motel sits silent, its windows staring dead-eyed at the world, a green truck coughing smoke into the sky like it’s clearing its throat for the last time. Is he running? Delivering? Escaping something too far gone to chase? The snow-dirt streets stretch on forever, their veins iced and gray. Nothing moves but him. A ghost on legs, hauling a story you’ll never hear. And maybe it’s better that way.