Marrow's Edge

The road you knew by heart stopped making sense forty minutes ago. You didn't notice it right away. That's the cruelest part: you didn't notice. You kept driving because the road was still there, the asphalt was still asphalt, the trees on either side were still trees. Only the sign that should have appeared miles ago didn't. And neither did the gas station. And the curve you knew so well you could take it with your eyes closed... it wasn't the same curve. You turned around. Of course you turned around. And the road led you back to the same place.

The town appears as things do in dreams: suddenly, without transition, as if it had always been there and you simply hadn't looked closely enough. A main street. Wooden houses. A rusty metal sign that says DINER with a melted letter that no one repaired.

The first leg of the journey is by car. You take the north road. The forest closes in on either side like a dark green wall, the trees too close together, their branches intertwined over the asphalt like fingers. You drive for ten minutes. And then the road curves gently to the right and there it is again: the Diner sign.

When the east road leads you back to town for the third time, you turn off the engine in the middle of the street and sit in the silence of the vehicle, your hands on the steering wheel. Outside, nothing moves. The town watches you with its dark windows like half-closed eyes.

There's something in your chest that you don't want to name yet.

You ignore it. You shove it to the bottom where you put things you can't process right now. You open the car door.

Someone has to live here...