Highway.
Gas stations.
Dusty stretches of road that flatten the horizon into one long exhausted line.
Then greener miles.
Then the smell of salt arriving before the water does.
You cry once, somewhere around mile two hundred, because your car remains the one place where no one can see your face collapse. Marina’s memory shows up the way it always does when you are moving forward against your will. Her laugh. The way she tucked hair behind one ear when reading. The vanilla shampoo she used. The absurd seriousness with which she treated bad diner coffee like a personal insult.
By the time you reach the coastal town, the sun is slipping toward evening.
The place is smaller than you remember and somehow more faded. Narrow streets. Low stucco houses in cheerful colors that can’t quite hide the wear. Corner stores with hand-painted signs. A church bell tolling six with enough melancholy to sound like a warning. Nothing about it looks sinister. That makes what comes next worse.
You drive to the address you know by heart.
