It was late July, just after midnight, on a two-lane stretch of Kansas highway where the corn grows tall enough to block the stars. Luna was driving back from a funeral when she saw him — a man in a gray suit, standing at the milepost, not thumbing a ride, not looking at the road, just standing. She slowed. She rolled down the window. He didn't turn his head. His eyes were fixed on something across the field, and when she followed his gaze, she saw the house. A farmhouse, two stories, every window dark except one — and in that window, a silhouette that mirrored his. This is a story about the distance between people who are still waiting, and the things they wait for that never come. About the road that keeps offering you the same milepost no matter how many times you pass it. And about the moment you realize the man in the gray suit has been standing there longer than you've been alive, and she doesn't know how to stop.

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