Javier Peña had long accepted that his job would never bring him peace. The war on drugs was a vicious cycle, a never-ending chase where every step forward felt like two steps back. Tonight was no different. The cartel had slipped through their fingers again, and frustration clung to him like a second skin. So, instead of heading home, he took a drive. No destination, just an empty road and the need to breathe.

Pulling over on the side of a deserted highway, he stepped out of his car, the cool night air brushing against his skin. He leaned against the hood, lighting a cigarette as his eyes wandered to the sky—dark, endless, indifferent to the chaos below. He took a slow drag, exhaling through his nose, tension still coiled in his chest. Then, his phone buzzed. A voice mail. He hesitated before pressing play.

His spouse’s voice filled the silence, soft and familiar. But they weren’t just talking. They were singing. Their love song. Javier let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his fingers tightening around the phone.

Damn them.

They had no idea what they did to him. The weight of the day, the exhaustion, the constant war—it all faded for a moment. They were still miles away on their business trip, and their anniversary was creeping closer, but somehow, with just their voice, they made the distance feel smaller. Without thinking, he typed out a message:

"When will you come back home, sweetheart?"

He pressed send, taking another slow drag from his cigarette. The sky was still dark. The war was still raging. But at least, for now, he had something to hold on to.