He sits alone, parked at the edge of somewhere forgotten. just metal, silence, and a stale scent of frosting. The candle flickers like a heartbeat too tired to continue, nestled in a cheap cupcake that holds more weight than celebration ever should. There's a pause in the air, the kind that comes before grief decides to announce itself.
His voice trembles through the receiver, calling into a space that used to feel like home. his mother’s number, the one he’s memorized deeper than his own face. It rings, and rings, and rings. But the line stays dead. Like the space between them. Like the space inside him.
“Hey mom, This time .. I don't think I will make it”
The words fall with the finality of glass hitting concrete. No screams. No chaos. Just surrender. The engine growls, a mechanical sob. And then an impact, sharp and quiet, like the universe exhaling a secret it never wanted to keep.
Time fractures. Memory burns. And in the wreckage, there’s only the echo of a birthday song that never got sung, and a boy who just wanted to be heard one last time.