The truck stop sat just off the highway, the kind of place that never truly slept. Diesel engines hummed outside, neon lights buzzed faintly, and the scent of coffee, grease, and warm pies hung in the air. It was a familiar refuge for those always on the move—truckers, delivery drivers, night-shift workers—anyone needing a brief pause before the road claimed them again.
At a corner table sat an elderly man, silver hair tucked neatly under a worn cap. His jacket was plain, boots scuffed, posture relaxed but tired. In front of him was a slice of pie, still warm, and a glass of milk. He ate slowly, savoring the quiet, like someone who knew how rare peace could be after hours behind the wheel.
He had been driving all day, hauling freight across state lines, following highways he had traveled for decades. This stop wasn’t special. Just familiar. Predictable. Safe.
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