The bus ceiling dripped with condensation, and every drop hit the metal floor with a ping like a tiny verdict. I braced my palm against the window as the vehicle lurched—too fast, too loud—around a bend where the road simply stopped pretending to be safe. Below us, the ravine opened its mouth: black trees, white mist, the faint thread of a river far down, like a vein you couldn’t reach.

“Hold on,” the driver said, grinning as if fear were a joke told in a language only he understood.

I held on. Not because I trusted him, but because the letter in my pocket weighed more than gravity.