The day Ashton met the king was his twenty-fourth birthday.

  It began like any other day—sitting in his car off the highway shoulder near O'Hare, waiting for the morning rush. The scene at O'Hare's arrival terminal was always a comedy of climate shock: a sea of exhausted drivers, the sharp bark of airport staff fighting against the tide to keep traffic flowing, travelers dashing to and from their gates into taxis and rideshares with wind-whipped tears streaming down their disbelieving faces.

  "How do you live like this?" they sometimes asked, red nosed and short of breath.

  "Thick skin and a lot of whiskey," he’d answer, smiling.

  The sliding doors parted and a man with silver-flecked hair marched toward Ashton's CR-V. The fare—Bruce, according to the rideshare app—carried only a mid-sized suitcase. Ashton raised an eyebrow seeing the blonde woman gliding beside Bruce—her lovely, porcelain skin enhanced by the blush brought by the cold. Frowning, Ashton got out of the car to take Bruce's suitcase—the request had only mentioned one passenger. “Don’t worry, I have another ride coming,” the woman said.

  She leaned into Bruce and planted a goodbye kiss with her eyes closed, like it meant something to her. Bruce returned the peck with a hurried, perfunctory attitude. Eyes open. The woman's smile wavered as she watched him close the door before turning away toward another vehicle. Ashton exchanged curt nods with her driver.

  Bruce buckled his seatbelt, exhaling bourbon, and muttered, "Drive."

  Ashton peeled out, following signs toward the Loop. He glanced in the rearview. Bruce looked well-off, but his suit was wrinkled, as though he'd been living in it.

  "Off to work?" Ashton asked.

  "Home," Bruce responded, sighing.

  Ashton's eyebrow arched. "Oh? So, you're local?"

  Bruce mumbled something about needing a shower, his palm dragging down his cheeks as if he could wipe away the exhaustion. Life had degraded his handsome features in subtle ways: dark rings circled his eyes, his aristocratic nose was a roadmap of burst capillaries, his lips were cracked like clay, and his silver-threaded hair was mussed from fingers dragged through it too many times.

  "Kids?" Ashton probed, breaking the silence.

  The blue glare of his phone reflected in his bloodshot eyes as his thumbs danced to the tune of morning emails. After a moment, he said, "Two. Both grown and married."

  "Grandkids?"

  "On the way."

  "You and your wife must be excited," Ashton ventured.

  Bruce's head snapped up. "Who?"

  "Your wife?" Ashton repeated, thinking, of course, of the blonde beauty Bruce had left at O'Hare—though she looked a bit young to be a grandmother. "Oh... right," Bruce mumbled, his voice trailing off as if dragging heavy thoughts.

  Traffic on I-90 was light. The sun hung low in the east, a ripe lemon, its light bending off the polished downtown towers. To the west, a heavy Snow Moon lingered, fading into morning blue. Ashton glanced up, and through the magic of pareidolia, the man in the moon stared back.

  It was a sad face, a lonely face—the mournful expression of a cold, dead god.

  Bruce set his phone down and gazed unfocusedly at the snowdrifts piled against the highway.

  "I've been married thirty years," Bruce announced.

  "Pardon?"

  "Thirty years," Bruce repeated, his words thick and slow. "Sounds like a long time, right? How old are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?"

  "Just turned twenty-four today."

  Bruce laughed. "Happy birthday. Do you feel like an adult yet?"

  Ashton frowned. "Well..."

  "You don't. I know you don't. Since it's your birthday, I'll let you in on the secret to tracking your age, so it doesn't surprise you when it comes. You listening?"

  Ashton nodded.

  "It's your hands. You can avoid mirrors, but your hands are always there in your face. It happens slowly—so slowly you don't notice until one day you see it. Wrinkles, spots, loose skin. An old man’s hands."

  Ashton didn’t respond.

  "Your twenties are a mirage," Bruce charged on. "Blink and you're thirty, watching TV next to a woman with a swollen belly. This casual thing somehow became a marriage. And you're just... sitting there, like you never had a choice—like you were always going to wind up on that couch."

  The words dangled like a gallows man.

  “Parenthood is good, though. It’s a chance to relive innocence and patch the wounds from your own childhood. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “But they still inherit your worst traits. You watch it grow in them, like a sickness. Then one day, they're gone. Out the door. Taking your last good years with them."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Bruce paused to stare at some invisible horizon beyond the windshield. "And what's your grand prize? Retirement. Pickleball tournaments. Zoning out to Court TV and CSI re-runs. A McMansion in Florida and... fucking golf." He spat the last word out like a bad oyster.

  Ashton took the North Avenue exit toward the lake.

  "You buy a sports car, some fancy watches—things that shine in ways you used to. But luxury loses its luster; your toys sit in the garage or desk drawer, gathering dust."

  Bruce's voice fell to a whisper.

  "So maybe you meet someone who sees you the way you want to be seen, and for a while, there’s excitement again. You rediscover parts of yourself you thought were lost—it’s intoxicating. But then routine creeps in. The sneaking around, the hidden messages.

  Eventually, you stop caring about getting caught. In fact, letting it all blow up feels like the last interesting event left. Anything to feel something again."

  Bruce fell silent as they turned onto a quiet, residential street.

  "It can't be as bad as all that," Ashton offered, mostly to comfort himself.

  "You'll see," Bruce replied. He slipped something shiny from his coat pocket onto his finger.

  Tires crunched to a halt before a lavish art déco condominium. Ashton parked beneath a bright green awning jutting over the roundabout and helped Bruce with his suitcase.

  "Thanks for riding with me," Ashton said, offering his hand. Bruce took it and held it tight, his faded blue eyes locking onto Ashton's.

  "The worst part of getting old is waking up every morning knowing how the day will end."

  He turned and trudged toward his building like a man marching to his own funeral.

  The temperature dropped an inch. The sky turned a deepening gray. Ashton gripped the wheel, reached for the gearshift—then froze.

  In the rearview mirror, a pair of eyes stared back at him.

  Violet. Luminous. Intense.

  He whipped around.

  Nothing.

  The backseat was empty. The sidewalk outside barren, save for a couple conversing near the entrance. No one near his car.

  He exhaled sharply, forcing a laugh. Tired. I’m just tired.

  His phone chirped:

  PICKUP IN WEST TOWN.

  Traffic was light, but not for much longer; Chicago was waking up. As he pulled away, he stole another glance at the mirror.

  The eyes were gone. But the feeling lingered.

  *

  Ashton Madly had been a rideshare driver for two years. Chicago, with its familiar rhythms and moods, was like a third parent—constant, even in its chaos. He had every shortcut, scenic route, and hidden gem memorized.

  But even the familiar comfort of the city couldn’t quiet Bruce’s words. They clung like burrs prickling the back of his mind, irritating him with every mile. Ashton enjoyed the freedom of the job, but with inflation eating away his earnings and high gas prices, he was beginning to feel like a hamster on a wheel—running just to stay in place.

  His fare, Sherri, was waiting outside her hotel clutching a thick packet of documents. A Houston native, where real cold existed only in news reports, Sherri was the head of a national firm specializing in college insurance. Two years ago, she'd signed a five-year lease on a downtown office. Then the pandemic struck, bringing a suffering economy and a shift to remote learning. With smaller schools facing shutdowns and reviewing their policies, Sherri was in town to meet with investors—a Hail Mary play to keep her company afloat.

  She asked Ashton to turn up the heat. A simple twist released a gush of hot, musty air.

  "How do ya’ll deal with this cold?" she asked, rubbing her hands in front of the vents.

  Ashton shrugged. "We don't know any different." he said, as if sharing a secret. "It's not a bad place. One of the best, actually."

  Ashton wasn't na?ve. He'd been to L.A., NYC, Boston, Baltimore, D.C., and Miami, and found something to love in each city. But his heart belonged to Chicago; for Ashton, the Windy City captured the best of everything America had to offer.

  Love shopping in NYC? Chicago's Magnificent Mile rivals it.

  Enjoy LA comedy clubs? Visit Second City.

  Like Miami's marinas? Try the Play Pen.

  Yet, despite its virtues, he always added a crucial caveat for guests of his beloved city: "Never visit in winter. Come in early summer… or autumn, when leaves burn like fire along the lake. But never in winter."

  "Here is good," Sherri said as they halted at a red light in the heart of the Loop. She opened the door, filling the car with the soaring noise of the street.

  "Break a leg," Ashton offered with a wink. "You got this."

  Sherri offered a tight smile, then joined the current of suits and briefcases streaming down Michigan Avenue.

  He watched to make sure she entered her building safely, then relaxed. This protective instinct ran in his blood, a legacy from his father, Lieutenant Michael Madly.

  Ashton almost didn’t see the man at the corner, but once he did, he couldn’t look away. Everything about him stood out—his towering height, his wild beard, and his odd patchwork of clothes that were certainly scavenged. The sun caught in his eyes, filling them with violet fire.

  Something about that gaze unsettled him. It wasn’t just the color—there was an intensity, an urgency reflected in them. Ashton blinked, but the effect remained.

  Is he watching me?

  The man waved and yelled, but his words were lost in the chaos of the city. Behind, someone leaned on their car horn.

  Ashton clumsily pulled away, nearly clipping another car in the process. Drivers leaned out of their windows to flip him off as they sped down Wells Street. In the side-view mirror, the stranger grew smaller, watching Ashton’s car like he was trying to send a message.

  *

  For seven hours, Ashton drove Chicago's circulatory system of steel and concrete. That was twice he’d seen those strange, violet eyes. He couldn’t shake them.

  Days were short this time of year—by three, a deep blue filter covered the city. His final passenger left behind a disaster zone of crumbs. The sight of the mess made him his stomach pang for food but didn’t stop the tick of anger. Why does no one respect rideshares? Lazy, is what it is.

  He visited a hot dog stand, then drove Montrose Beach and parked by the sand, watching the waves while savoring the medley of tangy relish, juicy sausage, and spicy peppers.

  Ashton drank his Dr Pepper and tried not to think about what Bruce had said, but the words were a splinter in his mind. Would he wake up one day and see a stranger in the mirror, eyes dulled by regret?

  He knew how this day would end, and tomorrow, and the day after. It was like walking down a tunnel of funhouse mirrors, each step twisting him further.

  He turned his palms upward in the dim glow of the dashboard. They looked the same as always—young, steady—but now, they felt like something borrowed.

  He clenched them into fists and sighed. Outside, color leeched from the lake until it became a black blanket. Ashton's eyes grew heavy as seagulls reeled above like kites, their wails echoing over the water as he drifted off.

  *

  Laughter roused him—the madcap laughter of the unhinged.

  Jerking awake, Ashton blinked and scanned the beach for the source of the sound.

  A figure danced with the wind along the dark edge of the lake. The many pockets of his billowing duster flapped like mouths as he moved. Tufts of hair flared from under a plump turban. A brass key swung from the drawstring of his dirty sweatpants.

  Ashton tensed, yet the thought of leaving never entered his mind. He couldn’t look away.

  There was something celebratory in the man's wildness, and deeply joyful. His feet carved intricate patterns into the snow, the lines never crossing, as if he were channeling some divine message through his toes—transcribing the voices of angels into the earth.

  Ashton was so captivated he failed to notice the approach of the second man until he was tapping on the passenger window. His heart thundered as he stared back at the violet eyes and peering through the glass.

  "Greetings," the stranger’s voice chimed clearly through the window like it wasn't there. "Might I have a word?"