The bus stopped.

It did not stop smoothly.

It jerked.

The brake lights flared red against the gray morning fog.

I looked up from my phone.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

The text was unfinished.

Mom, I’m coming home.

The cursor blinked.

A small, rhythmic pulse.

Like a heartbeat.

Or a warning.

I looked out the window.

The road was empty.

White lines stretching into the mist.

The fog was thick.

It swallowed the trees.

It swallowed the fields.

It swallowed the world.

The bus driver stood up.

He did not speak.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

Cold air rushed in.

It smelled of wet earth.

And decay.

I stood up too.

My legs felt heavy.

Wooden.

I carried my bag.

It was light.

Empty, almost.

Just a coat.

A phone.

A key.

The key to the house.

The house that was falling apart.

The house where my mother waited.

I stepped off the bus.

The gravel crunched under my shoes.

I looked back.

The bus was gone.

It had dissolved into the fog.

Like smoke.

Like a ghost.

I was alone.

The silence was loud.

It pressed against my ears.

I began to walk.

The path was overgrown.

Weeds tore at my pants.

Thorns caught my skin.

Small cuts.

Small pains.

I ignored them.

My mind was elsewhere.

It was back in the city.

Back in the office.

Back in the cubicle.

The fluorescent lights.

The hum of the computers.

The smell of stale coffee.

I had worked there for twenty years.

Twenty years.

Eighty thousand days.

I had built a life in that box.

A safe life.

A quiet life.

I had ignored the phone calls.

I had ignored the emails.

I had ignored the letters.

I had told myself I was busy.

I had told myself I was important.

I was wrong.

I was just afraid.

Afraid of what?

I didn’t know.

Or maybe I did.

I was afraid of the end.

Of the change.

Of the thing that could not be stopped.

I walked faster.

The fog thinned slightly.

I saw the fence.

The white picket fence.

It was broken.

Splinters jutted out like teeth.

I climbed over.

My hand slipped on the wood.

I fell.

I hit the ground hard.

The breath left my lungs.

Pain shot through my ribs.

I lay there.

I stared at the sky.

The gray canvas above.

No birds.

No wind.

Just stillness.

I got up.

My knees shook.

I reached the door.

The front door.

It was ajar.

Darkness inside.

I pushed it open.

The hinges screamed.

A sound like a scream.

I stepped into the hallway.

The air was cold.

Stale.

It smelled of old paper.

And dust.

And sickness.

I called out.

Mom.

The name echoed.

It bounced off the walls.

It faded into the dark.

No answer.

I walked deeper.

Into the living room.

The furniture was covered in sheets.

White ghosts in the room.

I pulled the sheet from the sofa.

Dust rose in the light.

I coughed.

My eyes watered.

I moved to the next room.

The dining room.

The table was set.

Two plates.

Two glasses.

Two forks.

The food was cold.

Stale bread.

Hard cheese.

I touched the plate.

It was cold to the touch.

I looked around.

Where was she?

I went to the kitchen.

The stove was off.

The sink was full of dishes.

Water had dried into brown rings.

I went to the hallway.

The stairs.

I climbed them.

One by one.

My breath came in short gasps.

The house creaked.

It groaned.

It was alive.

But not in a good way.

It was dying.

I reached the top.

The hallway was dark.

I followed it to the end.

The master bedroom.

The door was closed.

I knocked.

No answer.

I pushed it open.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were cold.

The pillows were flat.

I looked at the window.

The glass was dirty.

I wiped it with my sleeve.

I looked outside.

The garden.

The roses were dead.

Bare stems.

Twisted and black.

I turned back.

She was not in the room.

I went to the bathroom.

Empty.

I went to the closet.

Empty.

I went to the attic.

The ladder was steep.

I climbed it.

The attic was dark.

I felt for the light switch.

I found it.

I flicked it.

Nothing happened.

The bulb was dead.

I stood in the dark.

I listened.

There was a sound.

A soft breathing.

It came from the corner.

I walked toward it.

My feet made no sound.

I saw a shape.

A bundle of blankets.

I pulled them back.

My mother sat there.

Her back against the wall.

Her eyes were closed.

Her face was pale.

Her hair was white.

It looked like snow.

She was thin.

So thin.

I could see her bones.

I knelt beside her.

I touched her arm.

It was cold.

I shook her.

Mom.

Mom.

Open your eyes.

She did not move.

I felt panic rise.

It was a cold fire in my chest.

I shook her harder.

She did not wake.

I looked at her face.

Her skin was waxy.

Her lips were blue.

I checked her pulse.

My fingers trembled.

I pressed them to her neck.

I waited.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

There was nothing.

No pulse.

No breath.

No life.

She was gone.

She had been gone for hours.

Maybe days.

I sat back on my heels.

The attic floor was cold.

I looked at her body.

I did not cry.

I did not scream.

I felt nothing.

I felt empty.

A hollow space inside me.

A vacuum.

I looked around the attic.

The dust motes danced in the faint light.

I looked at the door.

The way I had come in.

I looked at my mother.

The way she was now.

I thought about the bus.

The way it had stopped.

The way it had vanished.

I thought about the fog.

The way it swallowed everything.

I thought about the house.

The way it was falling apart.

I understood then.

The circle.

The loop.

The return.

We do not escape.

We do not break free.

We come back.

To the place where we began.

To the pain.

To the loss.

To the silence.

I stood up.

My legs felt stronger.

I walked to the door.

I went down the stairs.

I walked to the front door.

I opened it.

The fog was thicker now.

It pressed against the glass.

I stepped outside.

The air was cold.

I walked to the bus stop.

It was empty.

The pole was rusted.

The sign was faded.

I looked at the road.

The white lines were gone.

The fog was everywhere.

I heard a sound.

A rumble.

A vibration.

I looked up.

The bus appeared.

It materialized out of the mist.

It was the same bus.

The same driver.

He stood up.

He opened the door.

He did not look at me.

He just waited.

I walked toward it.

My feet moved on their own.

I climbed the steps.

I sat in the same seat.

The seat I had left.

I looked out the window.

The house was gone.

The fog swallowed it.

The bus started to move.

It moved smoothly.

It did not jerk.

It just glided.

I closed my eyes.

I thought about my mother.

I thought about the time I had wasted.

The calls I had ignored.

The words I had not said.

The love I had not given.

It was too late.

It was always too late.

But it was also the only thing that mattered.

The pain.

The love.

The blood.

The bond.

It was strong.

It was real.

It was the only thing that remained.

The bus turned a corner.

The fog cleared slightly.

I saw a city.

A new city.

A strange city.

I did not know where I was going.

I did not know where I was.

I just knew I was moving.

I was on the bus.

I was coming home.

But not to the house.

Not to the past.

I was going forward.

Into the unknown.

Into the next life.

The next loop.

The next beginning.

I opened my eyes.

The driver was watching me.

His face was blank.

He nodded.

I nodded back.

The bus moved on.

The fog closed behind us.

The world was gone.

I was alone.

But I was not empty.

I was full.

Full of pain.

Full of love.

Full of truth.

I looked at my hands.

They were steady.

I was ready.

I was ready for the next stop.

The next bus.

The next life.

The wheel turns.

The wheel always turns.

We ride it.

We endure it.

We accept it.

I closed my eyes again.

The bus hummed.

The road stretched out.

The fog waited.

I was ready.