The Reunion

I still remember traveling with my father along those dark highways in the north of the country — wrapped in shadows, watching through the dim window as tiny droplets of night dew slid down the glass. To my right, I could barely make out the outline of that mesmerizing cliff.

It was such a pure feeling that it held me captive for hours, making me forget everything happening around me.

Until everything changed.

The night felt as calm as always, but this time, something was different. My father turned on the radio, and what we heard left him uneasy and confused. For me, however, it was pleasant; it felt as though that call was meant for us.

“Blockade in the are—”

“No access, dea—”

The radio fell into static.

My father stayed silent for a long while, replaying what he had just heard in his mind. For a moment, it saddened me to see him so tense, so rigid, so full of thought — so I suggested we take another route.

And so we did.

For the next few kilometers, I guided him with an old map we kept in the glove compartment for emergencies. I can’t deny that I was annoyed by the situation; never before had I been forced to take my eyes off that beautiful cliff that always accompanied us on our journeys.

Slowly, I began to feel it calling me from the abyss — so dark, so graceful, so majestic. Gazing at it was pure delight.

I couldn’t resist the temptation, so I said to my father:

“They’re calling us, Dad. We have to turn right to keep going.”

Tragically, my father began to cry. He knew it was time to reunite with me… with his son.

And he turned the wheel.

We met again — after so long.