A frozen dusk, and the streets are empty— except for him. Antlers scrape the ceiling, bone-white against the cold glass, as he turns to stare through you.
The car’s a coffin, silent as a grave. No exhaust, no heat— just the sound of his breath fogging up the window, thick as regret.
You’ve seen him before, in half-remembered dreams, where deer wear coats and drivers sit still, waiting for the end to arrive.
Behind him, electric reindeer blaze, their neon forms tangled like wire— a Christmas long since buried, a joy long since forgotten.
But his eyes still burn. Not human, not beast— just there. Watching. Judging. Knowing.
You wonder who drives this thing— him or the ghost sitting in the back seat, holding a map to nowhere.
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