The Last Drive
It began on a day that didn’t feel quite real. I’d been on the road for hours, lost in the hum of the tires and the rhythm of the rain. I wasn’t sure anymore if I had a destination. I just needed to be moving.
That’s when I noticed it:
A black saloon, old and worn, but graceful in its way. It slid ahead of me as if it had always been meant to take that place—just ahead, leading the way. The rain glazed its surface, tracing silver veins across the black paint.
I watched it without meaning to. Every detail etched itself into my mind: the dent above the rear wheel, the crack in the taillight that made it blink just slightly offbeat. There was something comforting in its presence.
It felt like I wasn’t alone anymore.
Mile after mile, we moved together. I told myself it was coincidence. Just another driver on the same stretch of road. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were connected—that this car was meant to be there, keeping me company in the endless grey.
Three hours we stayed like that. And then, at a junction, another vehicle slipped between us.
When I looked up again, the black car was gone.
A strange emptiness settled over me. I laughed at myself at first. Who gets attached to a stranger’s car? But as the miles ticked on, I couldn’t stop looking for it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
⸻
Days passed. The black car haunted my thoughts.
And then, I saw it again.
Parked at the edge of a lonely road, as if it had been waiting for me. The rain had stopped, and the fading light made its black paint seem endless, like it absorbed the dusk.
I slowed, my heart racing. I didn’t know why. I rolled past and lifted a hand—a farewell.
“Goodbye,” I whispered aloud.
For the first time in days, I felt peace.
⸻
The next morning, I saw the car on the news.
A fatal crash. Driver dead at the scene. The black car was crumpled and broken on the side of the road.
Same plates. Same car.
I didn’t know the driver. But it felt like grief. It felt like losing something I’d never truly had.
And that’s when I did something I still can’t explain. I bought the wreck.
It sat in my garage, silent and scarred. I didn’t drive it. I didn’t touch it. I just… needed it near me.
⸻
Weeks later, the night swallowed me whole. The rain returned, heavier than before. I drove until the city lights vanished behind me, until the road narrowed and trees closed in around me.
My fuel was low. My hands were shaking.
Then I saw him.
A man. Standing in the rain at the edge of the trees. An axe in his hand.
I froze. He began walking toward me, slow, steady, unstoppable.
The clock on the dashboard ticked closer to the time I thought would end me.
I wanted to believe it was chance. I wanted to believe I was imagining it.
But I couldn’t take that risk.
I slammed my foot down. The car leapt forward, tires skidding in the mud. Branches clawed at the sides. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
⸻
The Car’s Voice
I carried his regrets, his unfinished business. I wasn’t cursed. I was a witness. Waiting for someone who’d see, who’d act, who’d break the chain. You did.
⸻
Dawn came slowly. The rain stopped suddenly, the clouds parted, and light spilled like gold onto the wet road.
The forest gave way to open sky, and I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
And then, just ahead, I saw it.
The black saloon.
Same cracked taillight. Same dent over the rear wheel.
It rolled onto the road, just as it had that first time, as if waiting to guide me once more.
But this time, I knew.
This wasn’t a loop. This wasn’t the start of another nightmare. This was the chance I hadn’t known I’d been searching for.
I slowed. I lifted my hand, tears blurring the dawn.
A wave. A farewell.
The black car eased ahead, its silhouette fading into the morning light—and I knew I would never see it again.
The road was mine now.
A gentle voice whispered inside me, soft but clear:
“Thank you.”
And with that, the road ahead felt wide open—free.
⸻
There is no end. Only the road.
