The van slowed down, its pace more deliberate than before.
Outside, the fog began to shift—transforming from a dense, suffocating charcoal to a translucent grey. The blackened trees still crowded the roadside, but gaps began to appear between them. And through those gaps, a faint, ethereal violet glow pulsed in the distance.
Dayat held the steering wheel with one hand, his left hand gently clasping Dola's cold fingers.
"Husband."
Dola's voice was faint. Soft. It lacked its usual sharpness.
Dayat turned his head. Dola was looking at him, her eyes dimmed by exhaustion. Her face was pale, with faint dark circles tracing the undersides of her eyes. She looked utterly spent.
"I want to sleep," Dola whispered. "I'm tired."
Dayat nodded. He didn't need to say anything.
