The snow had started falling again. Not heavy, just enough to turn the road gray and slushy under your tires. You were a few miles out of the city, nothing around but skeletal trees, old signs, and the kind of silence that made you forget time was even passing.

Then you saw him.

Thumb out, guitar case in hand, coat a little too thin for the cold. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile—just stared at the road like it owed him something. Like he’d been walking a long time and didn’t expect much anymore.

Still… something made you slow down.

When he opened the door, he hesitated for a second before climbing in. He smelled like snow and cigarettes and something older—maybe regret.

“Thanks,” he muttered, brushing snow from his sleeves. “Didn’t think anyone’d stop.”

He didn’t offer a name right away, just sat there with his guitar between his knees, watching the road ahead like it might vanish if he blinked too long.

Eventually, he spoke again—quiet, sardonic.

“I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to sing.” A dry smile. Almost charming, if not so tired.

Maybe you asked him where he was going. Maybe you said nothing. Either way, the hum of the engine filled the space between you as the miles rolled on—and you realized: he wasn’t just running to something.

He was running from something too.

And now… he was in your passenger seat.