The Mist

Gray and white. Laces loose.

He sits down on the bench, slipping his feet into worn sneakers, stretching the frayed laces taught, and double knots them.

A second pair of sneakers, smaller, whiter. fewer miles on their tread. Surrendered.

He pauses. Waiting. The walls offer only silence now.

He exits through the garage. His truck, dinged and battered beneath the dim yellow bulbs. The other car, shiny beneath a patina of dust. Tires bulging at the floor, melting into it.

Outside, he pins the keypad and the garage door rumbles down in a shaky, vibrato dance.

The air tastes of rust and cold. Red light cuts the edge of the black sky like a wound, hiding the lowest hanging stars.

His sneakers patter against the driveway, echoing against the aluminum door.

He starts off at a slow pace. Same route. No deviation. Down and through and across and into.

Each location envelopes the fragile ghost of memories past. Smiles and laughs and tears and ache.

The street lamps buzz electric, circled by moths, indifferent witnesses to his progress.

A shadow moves with him.

Unaware, his pace quickens.

The path through the park carpeted by chipped wood, soggy from the overnight rain.

His breath is labored. His lungs burn.

The pain builds with his pulse. He smiles and pushes harder still.

The shadow follows.

The park sails past, leaving the dark blanket of towering trees. The water opens before him, fog sticky on its surface. Thick. Obscuring what lies beyond.

His heart pounds.

The pain dull and fulfilling turns. Sharp now. Heavy on his chest. He drops to a knee. His smile contorts to a grimace.

Sweat seeps from his shaggy hair, tracing rivulets down his brow, dripping onto the concrete sidewalk. Collecting. Drip by drip.

His chest heaves, guttural grunts escaping. Breathing harder still. Unable to catch his breath. The strain bears down, willing him to surrender.

The puddle of pooled sweat shivers, a dark mirror catching the flickering streetlamp, a brief reflection of his familiar face. The puddle bursts, the wet seeping into cracks like a silent plea.

The world tilts. Unfamiliar. Confusing.

The shadow closes in and when it touches him, fear is replaced by memories.

Memories of laughter and happiness. Souls intertwined and split.

The tension eases. The weight lifts. And in that end a beginning.

The sound of the drips of sweat, soft, apologetic, and in that brief, wet, hush the night seems to exhale with us.

Rain descends, softening the cracks, dissolving the sweat’s mark into the dark.

Crouched beside him. The cold bites. Rain seeps into my sneakers with the tattered laces. My breath fogs the space between us, hiding his downward gaze. His shoulders droop, no longer fighting gravity. In the dim glow, his eyes seek mine — raw, unguarded, a silent acknowledgment that the battle has ended with a quiet surrender.

He lets go. His body slumps. His eyes flicker shut.

His face bears the peace of it.

I linger, fingers brushing the puddle where his sweat once pooled.

The red morning grows.

The streetlamps go dark.

Footsteps dissolve into the mist.