Oak Rutherford

‚Still Standing‘ The engine coughed, sputtered—and died. He stayed on the bike for a while, hands heavy on the grips, shoulders still. No curse. No frustration. Just the quiet exhale of a road that had run out. The town sign was crooked, the asphalt cracked. One stretch of road, two gas stations, three churches. And somewhere between boarded-up shops and dusty windows: a diner with its lights still on. He left the bike where it was. No spark left. Didn’t matter. The bell above the diner door gave a sharp little jingle—one of those cheap sounds that cuts through ears that have heard too much. Heads turned. Some looked away fast. Others stared a little too long. He wasn’t from here. That much was obvious. Leather jacket. Tattooed hands. A face carved from stone—too many winters, too many fights. And those eyes—always scanning the room, always finding the exits before the conversation starts. He took the last seat at the counter. Not out of politeness—just instinct. Never let your back face the door. Then: A voice beside him. Not loud, not pushy. Just clear. Warm. Curious. “You look like someone with stories.” He looked up. And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—his gaze didn’t move on. (54, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)