The traveller

He kept his eyes fixed on the road. The white lines snaked under the car, cracked and uneven like old scars. He’d been following them for hours, maybe days—it was hard to tell anymore. The fog blurred everything, smothering the landscape in a thick veil of grey, as if the world itself had been erased.

He couldn’t remember when the fog had started, but now it felt as though it had always been there. It wasn’t just outside. It was inside him too, a weight pressing on his chest, clouding his thoughts. The steering wheel felt heavy in his hands, though he barely noticed it. His mind kept drifting, despite his efforts to focus on the road.

The silence was deafening. Once, there had been noise—voices, laughter, the hum of conversation filling the car. He used to drive with the windows down, the wind whipping through as his daughter chattered away in the back seat, her small hands reaching for the sky. Now, all of that felt like a distant memory, a lifetime ago. The back seat was empty, and the wind was just a whisper against the glass.

The silence had crept in gradually. First, it was the pauses between words, the moments when he’d come home, and the house seemed too quiet. His wife used to greet him with a smile, his daughter with a shout. They used to fill the room with life. But somewhere along the way, the noise faded. The conversations became shorter, more stilted, until the silences stretched between them like chasms too wide to cross.

He had tried to hold on. God knows, he’d tried. But the harder he grasped at the life they once had, the more it slipped through his fingers, like sand. And now, all that remained was this—an empty road, swallowed by fog, and the quiet ache of what was lost.

In the distance, the fog thickened. The road ahead was nothing but a blur. He felt a pang of anxiety rise in his chest, but he pushed it down, forcing his focus back to the lines. They were the only constant, the only thing guiding him through this mess. If he just kept following them, he’d get somewhere. He had to. Didn’t he?

But the destination, whatever it had been, seemed further away with each passing mile. He couldn’t even remember why he had started driving. Was it to clear his head? To escape? Or was he trying to reach something—someone? He wasn’t sure anymore.

He thought of his daughter. When had she stopped talking to him? It was hard to pinpoint. The years blurred together, the little moments of connection fading into the fog of routine. He had been a good father once, hadn’t he? He used to carry her on his shoulders, her laughter ringing in his ears. Now, it felt like a ghost of a memory, something he could almost touch, but not quite.

Then there was his wife. Her face came to him in fragments—her smile, the way her eyes would light up when they talked about their future, the nights they stayed up late, dreaming together. But now, when he tried to picture her, her features wavered, swallowed by the same fog that surrounded the road. He had loved her. He still did, in a way, but that love felt like something distant now, something he couldn’t reach, no matter how far he drove.

The fog pressed in closer, almost suffocating. He slowed the car, unsure of where he was going anymore, or if it even mattered. His foot hovered over the brake. He thought about stopping—about pulling over and just sitting in the quiet, letting the fog consume him. Maybe then, he could finally rest. Maybe then, he could stop thinking, stop remembering.

But something inside him resisted. He wasn’t sure if it was hope or fear, or maybe a mixture of both. Hope that if he kept moving, he’d find something—an answer, a way out. Fear that if he stopped, if he allowed the fog to swallow him whole, he’d lose himself completely.

He gripped the wheel tighter and pushed forward, though each mile felt heavier than the last. The fog twisted and curled around the car, blurring the edges of his vision. He thought he saw something—just up ahead. A figure, barely discernible through the haze. His heart quickened. For a moment, he thought it might be her. His daughter. Standing on the side of the road, waiting.

He slowed, the car inching closer. The figure didn’t move. His chest tightened. He opened his mouth, as if to call out, but the words caught in his throat. As he drew nearer, the figure began to fade, dissolving back into the mist like a mirage.

She wasn’t there. Of course, she wasn’t. She was never there. Just like the moments he kept reaching for, the conversations he wished he’d had, the apologies he never spoke. They were all lost now, somewhere in the fog.

He pressed on, though each mile felt like a question without an answer. The fog wrapped tighter around him, thick and oppressive, and yet he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know how.

For a brief moment, the fog seemed to lift. Just ahead, there was a break in the mist—a glimpse of something clearer, brighter. He couldn’t make out what it was, but it was there, waiting for him. His heart raced. He could stop. He could reach it. He could turn back, maybe even go home.

But as quickly as it appeared, the break closed again, the fog rolling back in like a heavy curtain. He gripped the wheel, his body frozen in place. The road stretched ahead, endless and uncertain.

His foot hovered over the brake once more. This time, he pressed down. The car slowed to a stop at the side of the road. The engine hummed softly before he shut it off, leaving him in the quiet, in the fog.

He sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the void in front of him. The weight in his chest tightened, his breath shallow, uneven. He didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know if there was a next. All he knew was that somewhere, beneath the fog, beneath the silence, there was still something—something waiting to be found.

And maybe, just maybe, he would find it.

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1074 words inspired by this photo