The old man grips the wheel like a preacher with no sermon left, Eyes carved out of stone, jaw locked in stubborn silence. He’s seen the road before— The lines, the light, the broken edges of somewhere else. Beside him, a red coat slumps like a fallen flag, Weightless and forgotten. The backseat hums with the ghosts of old conversations, The kind where no one remembers the start And no one waits for the end. Outside, the world drips— A palette of grays, blues, and cold hands Pressed against glass like prison bars. Every mile here is a promise unmade, Every breath a negotiation with the inevitable. The windshield cracks the landscape into pieces, Each shard catching a different truth: The silence of running out of road. The ache of never being where you’re meant to be. The burn of a man who once believed in something, And now only drives to outpace the noise.