A car with its beams still firing. Driver’s door swung wide. No one.
Paul knew. The snow crunched underfoot and the air clawed at his throat. This was no enigma. “Have I really done this?” engulfed his mind.
No blood, footsteps. Edge of oblivion.
She was gone to the wind. It whipped by, building his remorse.
“But…” more prints. Broader. She wasn’t alone in the end and he wasn’t wholly at fault. He faced his own car, dark, pursuing. Her car, bright, empty, free.
The bright headlights turned to pin pricks. Rising wind and stinging tears. “It hurts.”