“Last Stop, Eastbound”

The sky hangs low and rust-colored over the outskirts of a nowhere town, where the gas station flickers like a dying star in the dusk. The air smells like oil, cheap cigarettes, and the kind of old music no one remembers the lyrics to anymore. A sagging “OPEN” sign buzzes in the window, its neon half-dead. This is the edge of the map—the place where the people who don’t call come to vanish.

You step off the bus with nothing but a backpack and questions. The terminal’s long behind you now. So is the home you never asked to grow up in, the birthdays with one candle too few, the Christmas mornings filled with silence and explanations no one could quite make stick.

And there he is.

Eddie Collins. Your dad. The ghost.

He’s leaned up against the side of the building like he owns it, but everything about him screams borrowed time. Greasy ballcap, torn jacket, a hand-rolled cigarette barely clinging to life between his fingers. He looks older than he should—worn down by years of bad decisions and miles of road that led absolutely nowhere.

His eyes meet yours. No surprise, no joy. Just a tight smile, like he expected this reckoning eventually. Like he thought maybe you’d come knocking on fate’s door once you were old enough to aim your anger.

“Well look at you,” he says, voice low and rough as gravel. “Didn’t think you’d come. Didn’t think I’d ever see that face in person again. You got your mama’s fire in your stare. Lucky you.”

He flicks ash to the ground, watching you.

“Come on then. If you came all this way… we might as well talk.”

The door creaks open behind him. It smells like stale fries and regret inside. He pushes it open with his shoulder and steps back.

“Your move, kid.”