It was a scorched afternoon, 1:22 p.m., when the sun stood directly overhead like an unblinking eye. The heat did not simply press down; it devoured. Asphalt shimmered in wavering illusions, bending the horizon into something unstable and unreal. Even the wind seemed to have withdrawn, unwilling to disturb the stillness.
He had arrived earlier than usual. There was no reason to linger anymore. Nothing left to retrieve, nothing left to salvage. It was finished. Everything had been wrapped up, sealed, archived, forgotten. Today would likely be his last visit to the decrepit building that stood several hundred meters behind him, its broken windows staring blankly at the highway like hollow sockets.
He did not look back at it.
He stood alone near the shoulder of an industrial highway where no one walked. No factories hummed. No trucks thundered past. No stray pedestrians wandered by mistake. His presence there felt like a clerical error in the universe. No one roamed that stretch of road, especially not on foot, especially not at this hour. Yet there he was, a solitary figure in the heat, waiting for the minivan that passed only once every three hours.
He checked his watch. The seconds moved sluggishly, stretching into something almost theatrical. He had no other choice. Walking would mean hours beneath the sun; calling anyone was out of the question. So he waited.
The silence was merciless. It amplified everything: the faint buzz of distant power lines, the subtle cracking of heated tar, the dry rustle of weeds along the roadside. His shadow was sharp and absolute beneath him, like a stain burned into the earth.
After an agonizing stretch of time—minutes that felt carved from stone—a distant shape materialized at the far end of the highway. A small, trembling silhouette against the glare. The minivan.
It approached without urgency, its engine humming in a tired monotone. No other vehicles followed. No one else waited.
When it finally slowed before him, he noticed immediately that there were no other passengers inside. The sliding door at the back remained closed. The driver glanced at him briefly, expression unreadable.
He could have taken the rear seat. It would have been simpler, more distant. But something about the emptiness unsettled him. Loneliness had a weight today, heavier than usual. Without fully knowing why, he opened the front door and slipped into the passenger seat beside the driver.
The air inside the van was only marginally cooler than outside. It smelled faintly of fuel and sun-warmed fabric.
The vehicle pulled back onto the road and began moving westward.
The highway stretched straight for 42.43 kilometers, a rigid line carved across the land. A river ran parallel to it on the right side, dull and reflective beneath the white sky. There were almost no other cars. The road belonged entirely to them.
The van could have accelerated recklessly, swallowed the distance in minutes. But the driver kept a measured pace, steady and deliberate. As though there was no reason to arrive anywhere too soon.
Silence filled the front cabin. Not the comfortable kind, but the kind that accumulates pressure. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, watching the faint mirage shimmer in the distance. The driver's hands rested calmly on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the worn leather.
They did not speak for the first thirty-eight minutes.
Outside, the river glinted like a blade.
Inside, the air felt dense, charged with something unnamed. He sensed that the journey was no longer just a ride away from a finished chapter. It felt like transit toward something waiting—something that had been anticipating his return long before he stepped onto that roadside.
At precisely the thirty-ninth minute, without turning his head, the driver finally spoke.
His voice was low, almost casual.