November Mist

below. You had been at the wheel. They found you lying somewhere between the trees, broken, soaked in blood and guilt. They never found him.

But every year, on the same November afternoon, you relive the day as it was meant to be, the way it should have unfolded.
The air heavy with the weight of those words that were almost said, and for one heartbeat, he’s here again, as real as the mist that swirls around you.

You rise slowly, jacket still wrapped around your shoulders, and stare into the horizon.

The air feels different this time. The mist presses closer, and you sense something in it. Something waiting for you.

Perhaps this year, he has come to take you with him.