Behind the glass, he waits, face lit by the pale yellow hum of neon, like a man caught in mid-sentence, halfway to revelation. His eyes cut through the frost-smeared night, watching, knowing— a witness to something he’s not telling. Fingers drum slow on the doorframe, a beat only he can hear, a rhythm that rolls like thunder from some far-off storm. Outside, the world is hushed, silent except for the whine of a dying engine and the flicker of light on broken asphalt. The streetlamps shiver— ghost bones rattling in the cold, barely holding back the dark. He looks at you, through you. The window is a mirror, the backseat a confession booth. You wonder if he’s real, or just a trick of bad light and worse roads. But when he lifts a cigarette to his lips— slow, deliberate— you know he’s been here before. Seen the cracks in the windshield, heard the whispers in the static. He doesn’t need to speak. You already know what he’d say: “You’re not driving anymore. You’re just along for the ride.”