I stood there, leather jacket clinging to my frame, the jeans I wore a relic of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. A cold wind swept past and I pulled the jacket tighter around me, staring at the empty road ahead.
No one was waiting for me.
I pulled out my old phone, its screen scratched and smudged from years of use. Only one contact was saved on it: "Mr. Cooper." His name felt like a ghost in my hand. I dialed, but after a few rings, the call diverted.
I tucked the phone back into my pocket and wandered to a small eatery nearby. The place was humble, its faded sign swaying slightly in the wind. Inside, the smell of frying oil and coffee greeted me, mingling with the faint chatter of patrons. I ordered a sandwich and sat by the window, watching the world move on without me.
As I took a bite of the sandwich, the roar of a motorcycle engine caught my attention. Dennis arrived moments later, skidding to a halt on a sleek sportbike that gleamed under the sun. His helmet tucked under his arm, he scanned the eatery with a troubled expression.
"Dennis," I called, raising a hand. His gaze snapped to me and his face lit up with a grin that made him look like a boy again.