We were halfway home from dinner when traffic suddenly stopped — not slowed, stopped. A sea of red taillights glowed ahead, stretching endlessly into the night. I leaned my head against the window, exhausted from the kind of day that drains you completely. When the minutes dragged on, I closed my eyes “just for a moment.”
When I opened them, something was different. The light filtering through the windshield wasn’t from headlights anymore — it was soft, golden, like early morning sunlight. I sat up fast. The highway was gone. The long line of cars had vanished. Instead, we were parked in front of a tiny, old gas station with a single rusted pump.
My husband walked toward the car carrying two steaming cups of coffee and a small paper bag. “Morning,” he said casually, handing one to me.
“Where are we?” I asked.
He smiled. “Got tired of waiting. Took the next exit. Figured we’d try the back roads.”
I laughed. “So… we’re lost?”
“Not lost,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Just rerouted.”
Something about that word — rerouted — felt right. We drove through quiet backroads lined with golden fields and peeling farmhouses, the kind of towns most people pass without noticing. I rolled down the window and let the cool air wash away my stress. For the first time in weeks, I felt light again.
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