They cried, my mother more than my father, and promised to finally slow down.

That night, I decided to surprise them. I did not call. I did not text. I imagined my mother laughing when she opened the door, my father shaking his head and calling me irresponsible for driving so far without warning. I bought a good bottle of wine and rehearsed nothing, because love never needs a script.

Rain started halfway through the drive. By the time I reached their neighborhood, it fell in sheets, blurring the streetlights into trembling halos. As I turned onto the main road near the old tram stop, something caught my eye.