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Coups de cœur Cultura
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The night hung over Ashen Hollow like a heavy shroud, thick and oppressive, muffling sound until only the wind's low hum remained. Jack Harper leaned low over his motorcycle. The engine roared beneath him, a beast straining to break free. The highway stretched ahead, a cracked ribbon of asphalt slicing through the pines, lit only by the flickering glow of his headlight. He didn't care where it led tonight. He just wanted away. Away from the hospital bills he couldn't pay, away from the memory of his mother's frail hand slipping from his, away from the guilt that gnawed at his bones like a starved dog.
The speedometer ticked past ninety. The needle trembled as if it sensed something he didn't. Jack twisted the throttle harder. Cold air bit at his knuckles through his worn leather gloves. He wasn't running from anything real, not cops or debt collectors, but from the silence that had trailed him since she'd gone. That silence whispered he'd failed her.
