Late at night, Gustavo sits alone in his garage, cigarette in hand, lost in quiet thoughts. This short story explores solitude, memory, and the bittersweet comfort of routine—a glimpse into loneliness that lingers even when the world is silent.
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| Smoke from dying embers remain after Gusravo's quiet reflection |
Gustavo sinks into the old outdoor chair in his garage, the one that’s slightly crooked but still holds him like it remembers. The street outside is quiet, save for the occasional flicker of the lamppost and the distant hum of a car engine. He unwraps a Snow Bear mint, places it on his tongue, and lights a Chesterfield cigarette with practiced ease.
The first drag is long. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the dark corner of the property.
“Been a long day,” he says, voice low. “You seem to be in a good mood tonight.”
He pauses, eyes fixed on the shadows. No reply, of course. But he waits anyway.