Two silhouettes carved from stone, silent as the road eats miles ahead. Bald heads reflecting the gray sky— like prophets or soldiers too weary to tell the difference. The fields roll past, empty and endless, flat as a broken heartbeat, painted in the color of old dust. No one speaks. No one needs to. The engine hums the only song that matters, an unholy hymn to forward motion— to anywhere but here. Their hands grip the wheel, knuckles like white flags. Eyes fixed on the horizon, where the earth forgets itself and blends into the clouds. Men like this don’t look back. The past won’t catch them. It never learned how to drive.