The guys playing cards by the window erupt into laughter over something. One of them slaps the table, jostling his mug. Coffee sloshes over the rim and onto the laminated menu. The other curses, and the waitress yells at them half-heartedly about making her clean up their mess.
The movie on the TV changes scenes, some family hugging in front of a tree, mouths open in silent laughter, edges of the frame blurred with artificial glow. I look away. I don’t fit in that kind of picture. Never did.
The clock above the kitchen door ticks louder than it should. I track the second hand as it crawls toward the next mark, andfor some reason, I feel restless. Like there’s a pebble in my boot I can’t shake out. Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else, and I’m wasting time.
Feels stupid. I don’t owe anyone anything tonight. No shifts to cover, no promises to keep. My whole life is one long open road. But something under my skin keeps whispering:Move.I slide a few crumpled bills out of my wallet, enough to cover the coffee and a decent tip, and leave them under the edge of the cup. The waitress catches my eye and gives me a nod that might even be thanks.
I stand, joints cracking, and snag my helmet off the floor. My body protests the idea of going back out into the cold, but the part of me that’s used to it just rolls its eyes. The bell over the door jingles as I push it open. The blast of air hits me, colder now than when I came in. I tuck my chin into my collar and step out.
Snow drifts down in fat, lazy flakes. It’s too warm to stick to the asphalt yet, but the edges of the lot are powdered white, like someone dusted the world with sugar and forgot the middle. I jog the few steps to the bike, brush the seat off with my glove, and swing my leg over. The leather groans when I settle into place. Helmet on. Visor down. Key turned.
Marla growls to life beneath me, engine vibrating up through my bones. Good girl. I sit there for a second, letting her idle, watching my breath fog the inside of the visor. The diner windows glow warm behind me, silhouettes moving inside, little slices of lives I’ll never know. An old guy throwing his head back to laugh. The waitress scribbling something on her order pad. The trucker leaning on his hand, staring at nothing.
Then I look past all that, out toward the road. The highway’s darker now. The snow’s coming down a little faster, blurring the lines between asphalt and shoulder. The trees sway, branches creaking under the weight building along them.
I should be thinking about traction, about black ice, about how easy it is to lose control when things look prettier than they are. Instead, something else pricks at the back of my neck.A feeling. Stupid. Vague.Like the air’s charged with a storm, I can’t see yet.
Call it instincts. Call it paranoia. Call it whatever you want. All I know is that the last time I ignored a feeling like this, things went badly. So, I don’t ignore it. I ease the bike out of the lot and back onto the main road, tires biting into the thin layer of slush. The wind hits my chest, tries to shove me back, but I lean forward, give Marla a little more gas, and let the darkness swallow us both.
But fate’s funny that way. Because in about an hour, I’m going to hear someone scream. And my whole life, the road, the silence, the running, it’s going to change. Just like that.
Two~The Shortcut
Mara
IShouldn’t Have Stayed So Late. Again. I stare down at the lock on the library door for a second before turning the key, like that’s going to magically rewind time. It doesn’t, obviously. The old wooden door gives its usual protesting creak as I pull it shut, and the sound echoes down the empty street like I just woke up the whole town.
“Sorry,” I murmur to no one, like the bricks can hear me.
It’s past nine. The sky’s the kind of deep navy that makes the snow look almost blue where it’s gathered along the curb. The lamps spaced along the street are doing their best, but they only manage weak yellow puddles on the pavement, leaving long stretches of shadow between them.
I zip my coat up to my chin and stuff my notebook into my bag. My fingers are stiff from too much note-taking and notenough circulation. The old library’s heating system tries, but it always loses the fight in winter.
I shouldn’t have stayed so late. It’s the third week in a row I’ve done this, lost track of time under that flickering fluorescent tube in the back room, surrounded by leaning towers of donated paperbacks and the smell of dust and old paper.
But when I’m with the writing group, it’s easy to forget time. There are five of us. We meet every Thursday in the back of the old library, five people with slightly ink-stained fingers and haunted eyes, all clinging to words like they’re life rafts. And maybe they are. For me, writing has always been a way to breathe. A way to control the story when real life won’t let me.
“Same time next week, Mara?” Hannah had asked, cheeks flushed pink from hot tea, hair escaping its bun in soft curls.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I’d said, even though a part of me always hesitates. Not because I don’t want to be there. But because leaving after nine means this. Dark streets. Empty sidewalks. Too much quiet between here and my apartment.
I take a breath and adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder. Tonight, we’d workshopped a scene from my latest short story. A girl on a cliff, yelling at the ocean like it could answer back. Everyone liked the imagery. They circled phrases and wrote little comments in the margins.
“Beautiful line.”
“This hits.”
“More here, please.”
I tuck those small encouragements away like I tuck everything else away, carefully. Gently. Like they might break if I squeeze too hard. I step off the library steps and onto the pavement. The snow’s picking up now, fat flakes drifting down from a low sky, settling onto my hair and eyelashes. I tug my knitted hat down over my ears and wrap my scarf tighter.
There are two ways home. Down Main Street, past the bar with the neon sign that never turns off, then past the takeaway that still has customers hanging around out front, smoking and laughing and watching people walk by. Or the shortcut.
I look both ways, even though I already know which route I’ll take. The thought of walking past the bar again makes my stomach twist. Too many drunk men outside smoking. Too many looks I don’t want to meet. It’s not that I scare easily, just that I’m tired of being reminded how small I am.
I cross the street, heading toward the narrow lane that runs behind the post office. The snow crunches softly under my boots, the sound almost swallowed by the hush that’s settled over everything. The shops are dark now, windows reflecting the streetlamps and the occasional flash of headlights from the main road.
I tell myself, like I always do, that the shortcut is fine.Sensible. Efficient.It shaves ten minutes off the walk to my apartment, and ten minutes is the difference between getting home with dry socks and cursing my life while I peel off soggy ones.
