The car rolled down the dirt road in silence, tires crunching over gravel like it didn't want to leave either.
"Billy leaned against the window, watching the village dissolve—the rusted gate, the winding path, the house where everything had changed."
He didn't cry.
But his chest ached with the heaviness of something unfinished.
His hand rested on the door handle, fingers twitching now and then, like they hadn't yet accepted that they'd let go of something they weren't ready to lose.
From the front seat, his mother glanced back.
She didn't speak.
Not yet.
She just looked at him—long enough to see the weight he carried, but not long enough to press it.
Mr. Frank kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The radio stayed off. Even the breeze felt careful, like it knew better than to speak.
Minutes passed before Billy's mother reached for a water bottle and offered it over the seat. Her hand lingered in the air.
He didn't take it.
