It began as an ordinary night, the kind that blurs into memory almost as soon as it passes—a long, quiet drive home along a highway we had traveled countless times before. My wife, Amrita, and I had stayed later than planned at a friend’s gathering in a neighboring town, lingering over conversation and tea until the evening stretched into early morning. By the time we finally set out, the roads were nearly empty, washed in the pale glow of distant streetlights and the occasional sweep of headlights from passing trucks. We were tired but content, speaking softly about mundane things—what groceries we needed, the work waiting for us the next day, whether we’d remembered to lock the back door.

There was nothing remarkable about that drive until, without warning, the engine sputtered. A soft rattle became a violent shake, and then the car coasted helplessly to the shoulder of a deserted stretch of road. We tried the ignition again and again, but the only response was a hollow clicking sound that seemed to echo the sinking feeling in our chests. Our phones, nearly drained from the long evening, flickered and died one after the other. The clock on the dashboard read 2:07 a.m. The silence that followed felt immense, as if the night itself were holding its breath.