— You… that night… — she couldn’t finish. Her lips trembled, her eyes darted past me, as if someone else were standing there in the dark.

— I’m sorry, — I said quietly. — I think you’re mistaken.

She shook her head.
— No. I remember. You pulled us out of the car… at night, on the highway, five years ago. There was a burning fuel truck.
I was holding my child, screaming — and suddenly someone opened the door… It was you.

The words hung between us, mixing with the sound of the rain.
I wanted to say it was impossible — that my son had died that night, that I’d barely survived myself.
But I couldn’t.

The boy looked up at me, and in his eyes, I saw the same expression I’d once seen before losing everything.

The woman stepped closer.
— Why did you come now? — she whispered.

I looked up at the sky.
For a moment, it felt like everything was happening again.
The same rain. The same fear.
— Maybe, — I said, — because some roads don’t end until you find out why you were meant to travel them.

She offered me coffee and invited me inside.
I glanced at the road, then at her door, and thought that maybe this wasn’t a coincidence — that it was time to leave the past behind and go in…
I slowly got off my motorcycle and walked toward the house.