The night was long. Wet asphalt stretched out like a ribbon, streetlights reflecting in the windshield like scattered thoughts. Laura was driving home — tired, silent. The radio murmured something soft and meaningless, and it felt like the road knew her better than anyone ever could.
“It’s too quiet,” she said aloud, to no one but herself. Her voice sounded strange — almost unfamiliar.
On the back seat lay a folder of papers no one would read tomorrow anyway. On the passenger seat — a thermos with cold coffee. Everything as always. Everything under control.
Then — movement outside the window. Two shapes? No, one… and a dog?
Laura eased off the gas, glancing in the mirror.
A small boy stood by the roadside, holding a leash. The dog sat beside him, head lowered. The scene looked painted — warm, surreal, impossible at such a late hour.
“What are you doing here?” she murmured, though the window was closed.
Her heart gave a short, sharp jolt — not fear, not anxiety, just that strange sense when time seems to stumble.
Laura hit the brakes. The car stopped in the middle of the road, softly, the tires whispering against the wet ground.
And in that same second — a flash of light.
A truck came roaring out from around the bend.
Massive, unstoppable — like a blow, like fate itself.
The air shook, the headlights ripped the darkness apart — the wet road, her reflection, the boy, the dog, the glint of rain.
The truck thundered past — so close that her rearview mirror quivered. Then silence again. Only the rain tapping gently on the glass.
Laura sat still.
Her hands trembled on the wheel. She couldn’t breathe. For several seconds — or maybe minutes — everything inside her was empty.
Then — a soft knock on the window.
The boy. About ten years old, hair wet from rain. The dog leaned toward the door.
She rolled the window down.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice rough, unfamiliar.
“Yes,” he said simply. “We were waiting for the car to pass.”
“The car…” She glanced toward the road where the truck had just thundered by. “Didn’t you see it?”
He shrugged.
“No. We were just walking.”
He smiled — as if nothing had happened. The dog snorted, wet and content.
“Is your home far?” she asked.
“No. It’s close. We know the way.”
He nodded politely, like a grown-up, and walked away — calm, steady, without looking back.
Laura watched them disappear into the rain. Then she turned off the engine, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding fast, as if trying to catch up with life itself.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, “you just have to hit the brakes.”
She didn’t know why she had stopped.
Didn’t know who she had saved — herself, him, or someone else entirely.
But she knew one thing: sometimes fate hides in the smallest actions — like a foot on the brake pedal and a sudden glance to the side.
