The silent miles

The rain came in sheets, blurring the world into streaks of gray and silver. Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, eyes fixed on the thin line of headlights cutting through the mist. Beside him, Anna’s hand pressed to her belly, her breath uneven, panicked.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice rough from shouting over the storm. “I’ve got you. We’re almost there. Just hold on.”

“I—I can’t,” she whimpered. “I don’t think I can…”

He reached over, gripping her hand. “Shh, shh. You’re fine. I’m right here. Just breathe with me. In… and out…”

The world outside the windshield was a smear of rain, asphalt, and dim light, but up ahead — faint but unmistakable — the hospital loomed. Its white lights cut through the darkness like a beacon. Noah felt a surge of relief. Almost there.

And then the road stretched.

He gritted his teeth. “It’s just a curve,” he muttered, pressing harder on the accelerator. The tires hissed on the wet asphalt.

The hospital remained where it had been — the same distance ahead, the same shape, the same sterile glow. And yet, the road continued. Mile after mile, endless black ribbon curling into mist.

Anna gasped. “Noah…the hospital....i-it’s not moving. We’re not getting any closer.”

He swallowed hard. “Of course we are. We just have to keep going.”

But every curve, every straight stretch, every flickering streetlight, led them back to the same horizon. The hospital never grew larger. It never drew nearer. It was always there, distant, impossible, tantalizingly close yet unreachable.

“Noah,” Anna said, her voice breaking. “Please… I don’t want this…”

“I know,” he said, forcing a reassuring smile. “You’re doing great. I’ve got you. I promise, you’re safe with me. We’ll—”

The tires skidded on a slick patch. He corrected the wheel, breathing fast. “We’ll get there. Just a little farther. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

They drove on.

---

Hours and hours— Noah couldn’t tell how many— passed. The road was empty save for the rain and the occasional flicker of broken signs. Their headlights bounced off wet asphalt and fog, but nothing else existed. Trees leaned at impossible angles, their branches scratching against the windshield like skeletal fingers. The hospital’s lights remained the same, constant, unchanging.

Anna leaned against him, shivering. “Noah… the baby…”

“I know,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re safe. We’ll make it. Just a little farther. Keep breathing.”

But as he drove, a creeping fear settled in his chest. Every mile felt heavier. The steering wheel vibrated like a pulse in his hands. The headlights reflected in the rain like twin eyes watching him, mocking him. And the hospital — oh, that relentless, impossible hospital — it never changed.

---

He tried everything.

He accelerated, pressed harder on the gas, but the road did not shorten.

He braked, tried to pull over, but there was no shoulder, no ground, only endless asphalt curling into darkness.

He swerved, yelled, begged, but the hospital remained the same distant light, the same sterile promise.

And the most weird thing was that the tank was always full.

Anna’s sobs grew louder. He reached over, clasped her hands in his. “I’m right here. You’re safe. We’re okay. Look at me. Look at me!”

She shook her head. “No, Noah… it’s not real… nothing’s real…”

The rain began to fall harder, drumming a relentless beat on the hood, on the roof, on his fraying nerves. Time had no meaning. His gas tank was full; yet, every mile consumed fuel as though he’d never driven before. Every attempt to escape the road was swallowed by infinity.

---

Noah’s vision blurred. Headlights flickered. He blinked, trying to focus. There — the hospital. Always there. He could see the doors. The red cross above. The pale light spilling out. His heart leapt, and then, impossibly, the road stretched.

He drove faster. Faster. Faster. Anna clutched his arm, screaming. “Noah! Please! Stop!”

But he could not stop. Not now. Not ever. He had promised her. He had promised the baby.

---

The miles turned into a silent eternity. No other cars. No other buildings. Only rain, fog, and the relentless hum of asphalt beneath tires.

His own voice echoed back to him when he whispered reassurances. It sounded alien. Hollow. He realized with a slow, suffocating dread: the words had always been empty. They could not bridge this road, this void, this endless distance to the hospital that would never arrive.

Anna’s sobs quieted, then stopped. Her hand went slack in his. He glanced over. She was asleep, or perhaps… still. He could not tell anymore. In his heart he chanted, "No, she's fine. she's just a little tired. she's just sleeping."

The hospital still gleamed on the horizon. And still, they drove.

---

The road began to change.

The rain thinned, the mist lifted, but the asphalt remained unbroken, unending. Shadows began to curl along the edges, deep and black, stretching impossibly. Shapes flickered at the periphery — glimpses of the unborn child, glimpses of faces he had failed, of moments lost, of lives he could not protect.

Noah’s throat was dry. He could feel the pulse of the road beneath him, as if it were alive, synchronized with his heartbeat. He tried to speak. “It’s okay… it’s okay…”

The shapes coalesced. He could see them clearly now: the hospital doors, always distant. The faces of everyone he had loved. His own reflection in the rain-slicked hood, eyes wide, uncomprehending.

And then the road whispered, in the voice of the storm and the dark and the silent mile:

“You will never arrive.”

---

Noah’s hands tightened on the wheel. His knuckles cracked. He shouted, screamed, begged. But the road remained. The horizon never changed. The hospital stayed distant. The world had narrowed into a single, unyielding truth: he would drive forever, and the promise of safety, of life, of the child he loved, was unreachable.

The rain fell. The tires hissed. The road stretched on.

And still, he drove.

---