In Transit
The car pulled up—a dark electric sedan, glossy and impersonal. Dæmon slid into the back seat, grateful for the quiet. The driver nodded a greeting but didn’t speak. The car eased away from the curb like it had never stopped at all.
The city moved past in hushed streaks. Neon signs bled into brick. Tree limbs shook loose what little light they held. Inside the cabin, the world felt thinner—the boundary between waking and dreaming not quite mended.
He glanced at his phone. Nothing from the missed meeting. No calls. No texts. Just the last calendar notification, now expired. A vague irritation flickered and passed.
He opened a new message.
To Dors
Fell asleep waiting. Weird dream. You ever wake up feeling like the dream kept going without you?
He hesitated. Considered deleting it. Then sent it.
The phone dimmed. His reflection stared back: eyes still caught between worlds.
Streetlights slid across the windshield in intervals. Each one felt like a memory trying to surface.
He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
The city kept moving.
