A Ü T O/M Ö T O R

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vyle. circles back.

The Camry loops through the streets like it's retracing something unspoken, something unfinished—
the tires following the same cracks in the pavement they've rolled over a thousand times before.

The hospital is still waiting, but he knows: he can't do this alone.

Regents Park looms ahead, its architecture a mix of the familiar and the imposing.

He's not going up, just stopping at the front, where Dasha is waiting at his apartment door—
a figure caught between the present and every moment leading up to now.

His mother had seen their bond, from neighborhood kids, to growing into themselves at that time.

Maybe that's why he needed her now.

Maybe that's why he came back instead of driving straight to the hospital.

As he waits, idling in the front drive of Regents Park, the memories hit:
all the years, the late-night conversations, the moments when they had each been the other's buoy,
keeping afloat in a world that never stopped moving, never stopped asking for more.

It's not the portal this time.

It's something else—a cloud, a mass of particles moving slow and deliberate, weaving through the air like a breath made visible.

It doesn't demand his attention; it simply exists, unfolding like a reminder rather than an omen.

It carries something deeper than memory—it carries her: the values she placed in him, the patience she showed, the sacrifices, the long conversations where she instilled something unshakable in him—faith, resilience, the ability to see beyond the immediate, to understand that everything has a rhythm.

The past doesn't vanish.
It lingers, it echoes, it informs.

The lobby doors slide open.

She steps out.

vyle. exhales, his foot easing off the brake.

The city moves, and so does he.