The Softest Exit

By the time the fog cleared, I was already gone.

The world lurched forward—

not harshly,

but like a sigh released after a lifetime held—

and I did not notice at first.

Only the wheels clung less.

The trees swam.

The fog lifted in slow heaving tides

as if the road had forgotten

where it ended.

I did not stop.

One does not stop for fog.

That’s how the stories start.

She was there at the bend—

or made from the bend—

a woman in gray,

one thumb up

like it had always been waiting.

I don’t remember the decision.

My hands turned the wheel.

She took a seat beside me.

We did not say much.

Just enough to keep the silence

from consuming us both.

Her voice was warm,

but it echoed like a memory,

as if I had heard her before—

in a lullaby,

or the space between heartbeats

when fear first starts to climb.

The fog grew thick.

Time lost all its numbers.

We drove past the same crooked pine over and over.

At some point,

I asked if she was cold.

She smiled without teeth.

“No,” she said, “but thank you.”

That’s when I knew.

It wasn’t fear.

Not exactly.

It was the knowing that nothing stung.

My chest did not burn.

My knuckles were dry.

The rearview mirror showed

only the endless white,

and not a single breath

clouded the glass.

She explained to me, gently.

No malice.

No ceremony.

“A rupture,” she said.

“Your heart collapsed in on itself.

The wheel kept moving.

The river took you in.

You died with your eyes open.”

I wanted to protest,

but her hand found mine,

and it felt like a conclusion.

The fog lifted.

The road did not end in crash or flame,

but a shore,

dark and quiet,

where the waves murmured like ash

and the stars hung lower than they ever had.

She stepped out.

I followed.

She did not lead,

nor pull,

but stood with her hand held out,

as if the decision mattered.

As if I still had one.

I took it.

Together,

we walked into the water.

It was warm,

and the tide reached for us

like something thankful.