The road was empty at dawn. No footsteps but his. No tire tracks. No birds this time.
Just the soft crush of gravel beneath his boots and the distant buzz of insects waking to a new heat. The kind of heat that didn't rise with the sun but had been waiting for it—patient, dense, already woven through the dry air like smoke.
The hills looked the same in every direction—folds of pale grass and scattered trees, brittle things with limbs like old men's fingers. They slouched against the horizon, unbothered by time. As if the land had forgotten what movement was. As if it had never known change.
Mark kept walking.
The wind was too weak to be felt, but he saw it in the way the grass nodded, slow and reluctant. Every few steps, a pebble shifted underfoot, echoing too loud in the silence. His coat brushed against his legs like a warning.
Then came the sound.
Not much. Just a low growl of a poorly tuned engine, straining against the stillness. A long, mechanical whine that rose and fell like a breath through teeth.
He stopped.
Stepped off the road, quiet and deliberate, placing his boots in the shade of a leaning cypress. The bark flaked under his touch. He leaned against it, the way someone might lean against a memory, and rested his hand near the inside pocket of his coat.
The truck came into view slow—like it didn't quite belong there, or maybe it did, too much. A boxy, rust-eaten thing. The kind of vehicle that had outlived its purpose but didn't know how to die. Patches of duct tape flapped gently from the hood. Bits of plastic held the mirror in place. The windshield bore a long crack that split the world in two.
It slowed.
The passenger window stuttered down with a whine and a pause. The man behind it had a grin that looked habitual, like it had nothing to do with kindness. His skin was brown, cracked from years of sun. Lips pale. Eyes like the sky before a storm—clouded but watching. A face carved from leather and late nights.
On his forearm, the faded ink of a Council insignia. Half-burned away. Like it had tried to forget its own meaning. Or been made to.
"Where you headed?" the man asked.
His voice was thick, like the engine—used to dust and long roads. Mark didn't answer right away.
"Doesn't matter," he said.
The man tilted his head in a shrug. "Name's Luca. Hop in, if you want. Not much out there but heat."
Mark didn't move at first. He studied the man, the truck, the edge of the knife handle barely visible between the driver's seat and the door.
Then he climbed in.
The seat was hot. Dust bloomed into the air when he sat. The engine coughed, then steadied into a low, grumbling growl as they pulled away.
They drove.
The truck smelled like gasoline and old iron. There was blood in the fabric—not fresh, but not forgotten either. The kind that had soaked in deep, that you couldn't scrub out even if you tried. Dirt had collected in the vents. Something small and metal rattled in the glove box with every bump.
Luca kept one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out the window. His fingers tapped against the rusted metal door in a rhythm Mark didn't recognize. Not a song. Just sound.
"Used to fight," Luca said. Eyes on the road. "Back when it meant something. Before the borders bled and the orders stopped coming."
Mark stayed silent.
"Now it's just noise," Luca muttered. "People moving. Pretending there's still a map."
Mark shifted slightly, the envelope pressing cold against his ribs. He adjusted the way it sat inside his coat, making sure it hadn't bent. Making sure it hadn't disappeared.
They passed a sign half-swallowed by weeds. It might've once said the name of a town, or warned of some sharp curve, but the letters were long gone. Just faded shapes peeling from the metal like skin from a dead thing.
Luca turned off the main road soon after, tires kicking up a thin spray of dust as they wound onto a narrow path. Trees lined both sides—skeletal things. Branches bent down like arms in surrender. It might have been an orchard once. But whatever fruit had grown here was gone now, and what remained was rot.
The air changed.
Thicker. Still. A kind of quiet that pressed against the eardrums and made every breath feel too loud.
Then Luca stopped the truck.
The engine ticked as it cooled. Even the insects had gone still.
Mark didn't speak. Didn't move.
Luca reached down, slow and sure. Pulled open the panel beside his seat and took out a knife.
Not quick. Not dramatic. No flash of threat or flair. Just a simple motion, like a man lighting a cigarette.
The blade was old—worn from use, not for show. The handle dark with sweat and time.
"I'm gonna need that envelope," Luca said.
His tone didn't change. No anger. No hunger. Just a line in the sand he'd already decided to cross.
Mark stared at him.
Quiet.
Then he moved.
His hand snapped forward, caught Luca's wrist mid-swing, slammed it into the wheel with enough force to make metal ring. The knife dropped between their feet. Luca's eyes went wide—but before he could recover, Mark drove his elbow into the side of his skull.
Once.
Twice.
The body slumped sideways, groaning softly before silence took it.
Mark waited a second longer, just to be sure.
Then stepped out.
The sun was higher now. Pale, sharp. It cast everything in hard lines. No warmth, just light—like a spotlight on a crime scene. He didn't look back.
Didn't check to see if Luca was still breathing. It didn't matter right now.
He walked.
Five more miles. Through dust and thorn, past rocks that had seen the fall of cities. Past the bones of things too small to bury. The envelope stayed tucked inside his coat. Untouched. The paper crisp against his ribs, untouched by blood or sweat.
He didn't rush. The world didn't ask him to.
By the time he reached the river, the sun had begun to lean westward. The water was thin, winding through the land like a scar. Clear in some places, brown in others. The banks were lined with cracked stones and bent reeds, tired things that bent toward the water like supplicants.
Mark knelt.
He cupped his hands and drank. Cold. Metallic. Real. Then he washed the dust from his skin. His reflection broke apart in the ripples—just eyes, then mouth, then gone.
He sat there for a while.
Listening.
Nothing but water. Nothing but the wind moving slow through the trees, dragging silence behind it like a shadow.
Eventually, he lay down.
Used his jacket as a pillow, the envelope tucked beneath his arms, close to his chest. The ground was hard. The sky, colorless. Stars wouldn't come out until the black had swallowed everything else.
The river whispered beside him. A lullaby spoken through teeth.
He didn't dream.
But all night, the orchard clung to him. The silence. The knife. The moment before it all broke open, stretched out like a crack in the earth. And the look on Luca's face—right before it went dark.
Not fear. Not surprise.
Recognition.
***
A/N: why was he behind the letter.
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