The insurance office is cold, sterile, a stark contrast to the chaos of our situation.
Papers are shuffled, questions are asked, but answers remain elusive.
Each promise of help feels like a mirage, shimmering just out of reach.
“We’ll see what we can do,” the adjuster says, offering little comfort.
My mother nods, but I can see the frustration in her eyes.
We leave the office, the weight of unresolved matters pressing down on us.
Back at the site, the biker is still there, working as if time itself is irrelevant.
His persistence is both baffling and oddly reassuring.
“Why won’t he talk to us?” I wonder aloud.
My mother’s gaze is fixed on the horizon, as if searching for an answer among the clouds.
