The glass tells stories it shouldn’t— A face that wasn’t there, A voice that didn’t belong. Windshield smeared, Reality threadbare, Caught somewhere between arrival and escape.
The driver grips the wheel, Eyes forward, knuckles white— But the mirror whispers back, A truth in fogged reflection: You’ve picked up something you can’t put down.
In the rearview, red lights bleed Into the sandstorm ahead, And the passenger waits, Still. Watching.
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