The Last Ride

Rain hammered against the windshield, blurring the runway lights in the distance as Jane pulled her car into the airport's rideshare queue. Friday nights were usually busy, but tonight's storm had turned the world into a maze of slick streets and glowing reflections. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and glanced at the clock—8:47 p.m. A few more runs and she'd call it a night. The double shifts were wearing on her, but the extra money helped keep her mind off things she'd rather not think about.

Her phone buzzed: Pickup: Max. Terminal C.

She accepted, wiped her palms on her jeans, and pulled toward the arrivals curb. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour, their rhythmic squeaking almost hypnotic. Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating the chaos of travelers hurrying through the storm.

He was waiting just under the awning, no umbrella, only a black coat draped over his arm. Tall, lean, with dark hair slicked back from the rain. But it wasn't his build or the way he carried himself that made her chest tighten—it was his face. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought she was staring at Sam.

Her brother had been gone for six years. Six long, aching years since cancer stole his laugh, his sarcasm, his presence at every family cookout. She could still hear his voice sometimes, especially on nights like this when the world felt too big and empty. But this man—this stranger—had Sam's smile, his sharp jawline, even the same dimple in his left cheek that appeared when he was amused.

"Jane?" His voice was warm, steady, with that same gentle cadence Sam used when he was trying to comfort her.

"Yeah," she managed, forcing a smile as he slid into the back seat. "You're Max, right?"

"That's me. Thanks for coming out in this weather." He settled in, and she caught a whiff of something familiar—not cologne, but something warmer. Like the old leather jacket Sam used to wear, the one that still hung in her closet at home.

She pulled away from the curb, gripping the wheel tighter than usual. The storm had swallowed the highway, headlights smeared by rain, wipers slashing back and forth like frantic metronomes. Other cars crawled through the darkness, their brake lights bleeding red through the downpour.

"So," she said, trying to shake the chill creeping up her spine, "what brings you here? Business or pleasure?"

"A little of both," he said with a faint grin. Sam's grin. The one he'd flash when he was about to reveal some surprise he'd been planning for weeks. "Mostly visiting family."

Her throat went dry. She shouldn't stare at him in the rearview mirror, but she couldn't stop. The resemblance wasn't just similar—it was uncanny, impossible. Her mind tumbled through memories: Sam teaching her to ride a bike in their parents' driveway, Sam sneaking her snacks during late-night movies when she was supposed to be grounded, Sam lying in that sterile hospital bed whispering, "Don't cry, Janie. You'll see me again."

The doctors had said the morphine made him say strange things near the end.

"Family, huh?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible over the storm.

"Yeah," Max said, his reflection meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Haven't seen them in a while. Too long, really."

The words hit like a punch. Neither had she. She'd stopped going to family gatherings after Sam died, couldn't bear the empty chair at the dinner table, the way conversations would pause when someone almost mentioned his name. Her parents had tried to reach out, but grief had built walls she couldn't seem to tear down.

The silence stretched, filled only by rain drumming on the roof and the occasional rumble of thunder. She kept stealing glances at him, her heart pounding harder with each one. The way he sat, slightly slouched with one arm resting on the door—that was Sam's posture exactly. Should she say something? Tell him? Hey, you look exactly like my dead brother—crazy, right?

She bit her lip, tasting copper.

Finally, the words slipped out. "You know… you look just like someone I used to know."

He smiled. That same smile that used to melt her anger during teenage fights, the one that told her everything would be okay even when their world was falling apart.

"Is that so?" Max's voice was calm, almost amused, but there was something deeper there—a warmth that felt like coming home.

"Yeah," she whispered. "My brother. His name was Sam. He… he passed away six years ago. Cancer."

Max held her gaze in the mirror, eyes glinting with something she couldn't name—sadness? Recognition? Love? But he said nothing for a long moment. Just that gentle smile and an expression so achingly familiar it made her chest hurt.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said finally, and the words carried a weight that seemed to fill the car.

They drove in silence the rest of the way, winding through empty streets where streetlights cast wavering pools of yellow through the rain. She tried to focus on the road, but her thoughts kept spiraling: Why did he look like Sam? Was it a sign? A trick of the storm and shadows? Her hands trembled on the wheel as she navigated the flooded intersections.

When they reached the address—a quiet residential street she didn't recognize—Max leaned forward slightly. In the dim light, she could see his profile clearly, and her breath caught. It was Sam. Impossible, but undeniable.

"Thank you, Jane," he said, his tone warm, almost affectionate. "And… you really shouldn't take the bridge home tonight."

She blinked, confusion cutting through her emotional haze. "What?"

"The bridge. Don't take it." He opened the door, rain lashing at his coat.

The endearment hit her like lightning. Before she could ask how he knew her route—she always took the bridge to shave off ten minutes—he was gone. She twisted in her seat, peering through the rain-streaked window.

"Max?"

The sidewalk was empty. Sheets of rain fell, but there was no trace of him. Just the faint sound of thunder rolling over the city and the impossible silence where footsteps should have been.

Heart hammering, she looked at the back seat. Empty. Except…

A small slip of paper lay where he'd sat. She picked it up with shaking fingers. Four words, written in neat, familiar handwriting—the same script that used to leave her encouraging notes before big exams:

I miss you too, sis.

The breath left her lungs. Her vision blurred with tears. No. No, it can't be.

She fumbled for her phone, opened the rideshare app with trembling fingers. The ride log was blank. No trip with Max. No passenger by that name. Like he'd never been there at all.

Her hands shook as she started the car. She didn't take the bridge. Something deep inside whispered that she couldn't—not after that warning, not after seeing Sam's face in her rearview mirror. So she drove the long way, crawling through the storm for over an hour, tears slipping down her cheeks, memories flooding her heart like the rain flooding the streets.

When she finally pulled into her driveway, she killed the engine and slumped against the seat, sobbing quietly. The note was still clutched in her hand, the ink somehow dry despite the storm. At home, she flicked on the TV, letting the noise fill the emptiness as she headed for the shower, needing hot water to wash away the chill that had settled in her bones.

Behind her, the news anchor's voice rose with urgent authority:

"We have breaking news tonight. The Riverside Bridge near the east residential district collapsed just after 9:30 p.m. during the torrential rains. Authorities believe the storm weakened the structure's supports. Several vehicles were on the bridge at the time of collapse, and rescue crews are currently searching the river. We'll continue to follow this developing story…"

Jane froze in the hallway, water dripping from her hair. The bridge. Her usual route. The one she took every single night. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the television. Slowly, she turned toward the screen, tears mixing with rainwater on her cheeks.

On the table, the slip of paper still lay where she'd set it, the ink dark and sure:

I miss you too, sis.

Thunder rolled overhead, but for the first time in six years, Jane didn't feel alone in the storm.