Last of the Ascension - 9
Righteous
Five miles south—
distance pretending to be simple.
He could have walked—
but motion invited interruption.
He raised his thumb—
as if chance were still allowed to favor him.
A van answered—
color before intention.
It leaned toward the curb—
already welcoming him.
The door opened—
space made where there was none.
Boards crowded the back—
waves waiting their turn.
He climbed in—
and the world loosened.
“Where to?”
The driver’s hand brushed the shells—
not taking, only noticing.
Respect—
unasked for, but felt.
“I’m Beck.”
“Charlie.”
A name offered—
not his own.
Distance—
maintained, for safety.
“To the Pelican.”
“Righteous.”
Coffee, then—
a human pilgrimage.
He smiled—
because it was easy here.
Beck moved like someone unburdened—
as if consequence had not yet found him.
Or had—
and been forgiven.
Sofran watched him—
too closely.
This—
was a life he had missed.
Or refused.
Or broken.
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