Frozen breath smears the glass, Fractured halos of neon light Stuttering through the windshield. He grips the wheel like a prayer gone unanswered, Jaw clenched against the hum of the void. Behind him, they sit— Ghosts or saints, it’s hard to tell. Eyes hollowed, mouths half-open, Speaking in languages no one hears. The car shudders down roads unmarked, Rubber threading through ice and regret. Outside, the world is still, A snowbound cathedral, Where faith drips slow as condensation. They drive because there’s nothing left to do. Passengers without a destination, Staring forward— One last miracle between them and the ditch.