The snow settles like dust on a forgotten scene, Two figures carved from frost and gasoline. She grips the wheel—knuckles pale, deliberate, While he smiles with the ghost of a bruised past. Red coats in a white wasteland, They look like Christmas on the wrong day, Saints of a ruined season Caught halfway between departure and despair. The engine coughs against the cold silence, A heartbeat that keeps time with their breaths— But they’re not driving anywhere, Just waiting for the road to come back to life.