Mark

The old truck hummed steadily along the winding road, its headlights slicing through the dusk like quiet promises. In the driver’s seat, Mark Jensen gripped the wheel with a quiet intensity, his knuckles pale against the dark leather. Beside him, his son, Caleb, sat silently, staring out the window at the trees blurring by like ghosts of something unspoken.

It had been three years since they'd taken a trip alone like this—three years since the accident, since everything between them began to shift. Mark thought the fishing trip might be a chance to bridge the silence, to remember how to talk again, father to son.

But as the sky dimmed and the woods thickened around them, Caleb’s hands fidgeted in his lap. His chest rose and fell with something heavier than nerves.

“Dad,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

Mark’s brow furrowed as he glanced at him, sensing the tremor in his son’s words.

And just like that, the miles ahead became something more than distance—something irreversible was coming.