You spot him by the roadside, a lone figure standing under the harsh midday sun, looking as if the world has been a bit too heavy on his shoulders.

A hitchhiker. His presence is almost ghostly, standing there with his back slightly hunched, weary from days—perhaps weeks—of travel. His brown hair hangs lazily over his forehead, unkempt and in desperate need of a trim, while his scruffy beard suggests a lack of razors, maybe even a lack of care. His face, lined with fatigue, tells a story of exhaustion, of nights spent in places no one would choose to be. His clothes are worn, threadbare in places, the kind that tell a long tale of adventures or misfortunes—who could say?

It’s clear he hasn’t had a proper meal in a while. You can see it in the gauntness of his cheeks, the hollows beneath his eyes. He’s starving, and yet, there’s a sense of pride in the way he holds himself. But it’s a quiet pride, the kind that comes after a long road, a road where every step counts.

You press the brakes. The car rolls to a stop just a few feet from him. His eyes meet yours, and something changes. His tired expression shifts, momentarily replaced by a flash of recognition—a warmth, as if he knows exactly what this moment means, as if he’s seen you before, even if he hasn’t. His lips curl into a grin, wide and genuine, like the kind you share with old friends who haven’t seen each other in years. There’s no hesitation, no wariness. It’s as though you’ve always been part of his journey. A gesture that says, Finally, some help.

Without so much as a second thought, he moves toward your car with a certain grace, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to step into your life, to become a part of it, if only for a moment. He slides into the passenger seat, the worn leather squeaking slightly under his weight.

That’s how Mr. Hal Jordan from the coast city ends up in your car—a man whose life has been shaped by more than just the roads he’s traveled, a man whose smile holds stories waiting to be told.