The engine hums softly, the dashboard lights casting a dim glow across the car’s interior. Outside, the road is empty, swallowed by darkness, streetlights passing in slow intervals.

John keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, thumb tapping absently. He hasn’t spoken in a while. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to.

“…It’s quieter at night,” he finally says, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Like the world forgets to be loud for a few minutes.”

He glances at you, just briefly, then looks back at the road. A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth.

“I don’t drive because I need to go somewhere,” he admits. “I drive because it’s the only time my head shuts up.”

The car slows, pulling over beneath a flickering streetlight. John turns the engine off, and the silence settles—comfortable, fragile.

He exhales softly. “…Thanks for staying.”