Thomas gripped the steering wheel of his old sedan, the engine humming softly as he navigated the winding roads back to Willow Creek. The dashboard clock glowed 2:17 AM, the same time the accident had happened twenty years ago. He didn’t need GPS; muscle memory guided him through the fog-shrouded hills, past the faded billboards advertising long-closed diners. Every year, on this date, he returned. Not out of obligation, but because the guilt demanded it, a pilgrimage to atone for a sin he could never erase.

The town appeared like a ghost in the mist, streetlights casting yellow halos on empty sidewalks. He parked outside the cemetery, the iron gates creaking as he pushed them open. Mark’s grave was in the back, under the old oak tree whose branches clawed at the sky. Thomas knelt, placing a bottle of whiskey—Mark’s favorite—against the headstone. ‘Hey, buddy,’ he whispered, his voice cracking. ‘Miss you. Still do.’

He traced the engraved letters: Mark Ellis, Beloved Son and Brother, Taken Too Soon. Twenty-one years old. Thomas was seventeen then, invincible in that stupid way kids are. They’d been at a party, celebrating graduation, shots flowing like water. Thomas drove them home, buzzed and cocky. The curve came fast, tires screeching, metal twisting. When he woke in the hospital, Mark was gone. The cops said Thomas was lucky; the driver always dies first in those crashes. But Thomas knew better. He was the driver. His hands on the wheel. His foot on the gas.

He stayed until dawn, then drove to Anna’s house on the edge of town. Mark’s sister, three years older, had inherited the family home after their parents passed. She was the only one who still spoke to him, who didn’t whisper ‘killer’ behind his back. Thomas knocked, and she opened the door, her face lined but kind, dark hair pulled into a loose bun.

‘Thomas,’ she said, no surprise in her voice. ‘Come in. Coffee?’

‘Please.’ He followed her to the kitchen, the same Formica table where they’d all eaten Sunday dinners. Photos of Mark lined the walls—laughing at birthdays, fishing with their dad, arms around Thomas at prom. Ghosts everywhere.

They sat in silence at first, sipping black coffee. Anna had aged gracefully, her eyes still holding that fierce intelligence. ‘How’s the city?’ she asked finally.

‘Same. Work. Drink. Repeat.’ He shrugged. ‘You?’

‘Teaching still. Third graders this year. They keep me young.’ She smiled faintly. ‘You look tired, Thomas.’

‘I am.’ He stared into his mug. ‘This day… it guts me every time. I see his face in the rearview, yelling at me to slow down. If I’d listened—’

‘Stop.’ Anna’s voice was gentle but firm. ‘You’ve carried this long enough.’

He looked up, surprised. ‘What else can I do? I killed him, Anna. Your brother. My best friend.’

She reached across the table, squeezing his hand. ‘Mark wouldn’t want that for you. He loved you like a brother.’

Thomas nodded, throat tight. They talked then, memories spilling out like rain. The treehouse they built, the girls they chased, the dreams they shared. Mark wanted to be a mechanic; Thomas, a writer. Life had other plans.

By afternoon, the weight lifted slightly. Anna suggested a walk by the creek where they used to skip stones. The water rushed cold and clear, sunlight dappling the surface. They sat on a log, shoulders almost touching.

‘You know,’ Anna said softly, ‘Mark talked about you all the time. Said you were the funny one, the dreamer.’

‘I was the idiot,’ Thomas replied. ‘That night… I begged him to get in the car. Should’ve called a cab.’

‘It was an accident.’ Her hand found his again. ‘Forgive yourself, Thomas. For me.’

Her touch lingered, warm against his cold skin. For the first time in years, he felt seen, not as the monster, but as the boy who’d lost everything.

The visits became annual rituals, then more frequent. Emails turned to calls, calls to weekend stays. Thomas opened up about his failed marriage, the job he hated at the ad agency, the bottle that waited at home. Anna shared her loneliness after a divorce, her fear of empty nests. There was a spark, tentative at first, then undeniable. Dinners by candlelight, walks turning to embraces, nights where guilt faded in her arms.

But the shadow loomed. Thomas couldn’t shake the truth. One evening, after lovemaking, as they lay tangled in sheets, he confessed fully. ‘Anna, I have to turn myself in. It’s been twenty years, but I was drunk driving. Manslaughter. I owe it to Mark.’

She sat up, eyes wide. ‘No, Thomas. You can’t.’

‘I have to. The statute might be up, but I need to face it. Say it out loud in court.’

Tears streamed down her face. ‘Please. Stay. For me. For us.’

He held her, but resolve hardened. The next morning, he packed his bag. ‘I’ll come back after. If they let me.’

Anna watched from the porch, arms wrapped around herself, as he drove away. But at the town line, doubt gnawed. He pulled over, called her. No answer. Heart pounding, he turned back.

The door was ajar. Inside, Anna sat at the kitchen table, an old envelope in her hands, sobbing. Thomas rushed to her. ‘What’s wrong?’

She looked up, eyes red. ‘I can’t let you do this. Not without knowing the truth.’

‘Truth?’

She slid the envelope across. ‘Mark wrote this. To me. The night before… he gave it to me, said open it if anything happens.’

Thomas’s hands trembled as he opened it. Mark’s handwriting, familiar scrawl:

Anna,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Tell Thomas not to blame himself. It was me driving. I was wasted, saw the cops’ lights behind us. Thomas was only 17; jail would’ve ruined him. I told him to switch seats, say he was passenger. He was out of it, nodded. Crash happened fast. My fault. Protect him, sis. Love you both.
Mark

Thomas read it twice, three times. The room spun. ‘But… I remember the wheel. My hands.’

‘Trauma,’ Anna whispered. ‘The cops, the blood—you blacked out, said what Mark told you. Report listed you as driver because that’s what you said. No breathalyzer on a dead kid.’

‘He… protected me?’

‘Always did. You were his little brother.’ She touched the letter. ‘He was dying anyway. Cancer, stage four. Doctors gave him months. That night, he wanted one last ride.’

Thomas collapsed into a chair, sobs wracking him. All these years—lost job, wife, friends—chasing a ghost guilt that wasn’t his. Mark’s gift, stolen by confusion. Anna held him as the sun set, their tears mingling.

In the quiet, forgiveness bloomed, late but real. Not just for Mark, but for himself. The present, haunted no more, stretched hopeful before them.