The rain never stopped in Ellsworth, a small coastal town hugged by the Olympics, where the sky wept endlessly into the Sound. Elias Kane stared out his trailer window, coffee mug trembling in his gnarled hands. Fifty-five years of regret etched into his face like cracks in old pavement. Another morning, same ritual: black coffee, rain drumming on the tin roof, the weight of thirty years pressing down.
He’d been twenty-five then, full of fire and foolishness. Driving that beat-up delivery van after a shift at the lumber yard, three beers deep, angry at the world. The road slick, fog thick as guilt. A figure stumbled into the headlights—a man, coat flapping like a ghost. Thud. The van fishtailed, Elias slammed the brakes too late. He looked back in the mirror: body sprawled, unmoving. Panic clawed his throat. No phone, no sense. He floored it, heart hammering, changed the plates next day, lied to everyone. John Doe, they called the victim. No family claimed him. Elias carried the secret alone.
Three decades of penance. No wife after Margaret left, taking their unborn dreams. No close friends. Just the job driving trucks until his back gave out, then retirement on scraps. Nights haunted by the thud, days by what-ifs. What if he’d stopped? Called for help? Turned himself in? The cemetery visits, flowers on bare earth, whispers of apology to the wind.
Lately, the past clawed back. Letters started arriving two months ago, slipped under his door or in the mailbox. Typewritten, no signature: ‘I know what you did that night. The rain can’t wash it clean.’ First one he burned, thinking kids’ prank. Second had a photo—grainy print of the old road, skid marks faded but there. Third: ‘Time to pay.’ Paranoia seeped in like damp rot. He double-locked doors, peered through curtains at shadows.
Elias avoided the diner for weeks, but hunger won. Moody Falls Diner, neon flickering through mist. Margaret was there, gray-streaked hair, still beautiful in her sturdy way. They’d dated post-crash, before the booze and silences drove her off. ‘You look like hell, Eli,’ she said, pouring coffee without asking.
‘Bad sleep,’ he muttered.
She slid into the booth. ‘It’s more than that. Alex called me. Worried.’ Alex, their son, twenty-eight now, living in Seattle, engineer. Occasional visits, strained talks about football, weather—never the elephant.
‘Tell him I’m fine.’
Margaret’s eyes softened, pained. ‘You’re not. Thirty years carrying that… whatever it is. Let it go.’
He almost told her then, words bubbling. The thud, the flight. But cowardice won. ‘Just life.’
Rain lashed the windows as he left, heavier now.
Alex arrived that weekend, unannounced. Tall like Elias young, but clean-cut, hopeful. They grilled salmon on the porch, mist curling off the grill. Alex prodded gently: ‘Dad, therapy? AA? Something?’
Elias poked coals. ‘Don’t need fixing.’
‘Son, you’re fading. Like the rain’s washing you away.’ Alex gripped his shoulder. ‘Whatever happened back then—let it out.’
Dinner inside, chicken stew from cans. TV droned news: local cancer deaths, economy. Another letter waited on the mat. Elias pocketed it before Alex saw.
‘That night,’ Alex pressed, ‘you changed. Mom said you came home shaking, wouldn’t talk.’
Elias’s fork paused. Memories flooded: arriving home soaked, Margaret asking, he mumbling ‘accident at work.’ Lies compounding.
‘I made choices, son. Bad ones.’ Voice cracked.
Alex leaned in. ‘Confess. Redeem. Or it’ll kill you.’
That night, alone, Elias read the letter: ‘Meet me. Old Victor house on Ridge Road. Midnight, full moon. Come alone or everyone knows.’ Victor house—abandoned since old man Victor died, or so thought. Elias’s father.
Victor Kane. Hard man, logger, drank hard, beat harder. Left when Elias sixteen, rumors of debts, woman in Alaska. Dead ten years ago, paper said. But the house… Elias hadn’t gone near in decades.
Sleep evaded. Rain softened to drizzle. Memories of Victor: fists, shouts, ‘Be a man!’ Elias fleeing that home for the road, the van, the fate.
Midnight neared. He drove winding Ridge Road, wipers swish-swish, gut churning. House loomed, sagging porch, windows black. Flashlight beam cut fog. Door creaked open.
‘Come in, boy.’ Voice rasped, familiar gravel.
Inside, lantern glow. Man in rocker, blanket over knees, face gaunt, eyes sunken—Victor. Alive. Eighty-six, ravaged by time, cancer hollowing cheeks.
‘Pa?’ Elias staggered. ‘You’re…’
‘Dead? Newspapers lie. Hid up north, came back quiet.’ Cough wracked him. ‘Sit.’
Elias collapsed into chair, world tilting. Letters? Victor nodded. ‘Had to make you face it.’
‘The accident? You know?’
Victor’s laugh, bitter phlegm. ‘I was there, boy. That night, rain pouring, I drove my truck—old Ford. Drunk from bar, mad at world. Hit him first. Pedestrian, some bum hitching. Thud like thunder. I panicked, fled like yellow dog. Then your lights, van coming. You swerved, thought you hit him—saw body, drove off.’
Elias’s breath caught. ‘No… I felt it. The bump…’
‘You hit a log, skidded past. Body already there, from me. Fog hid it. I watched from bushes, let you take the ghost guilt.’
World shattered. Thirty years—nightmares, isolation, penance—for nothing? He hadn’t killed. Fled a scene he didn’t cause, protected unknowingly by silence.
‘Why?’ Elias roared, standing. ‘Why let me rot?’
Victor wheezed. ‘Coward. Jail scared me. You strong, carried it. Kept family name clean.’ Paused, eyes wet. ‘Forgive? Dying. Liver gone.’
Rage boiled, then ebbed into sorrow. Father, monster and frail. The decision—to flee—was innocent mistake, amplified by lie.
Elias knelt, took papery hand. ‘I forgive. But you stole my life.’
Victor nodded, tears tracking. ‘Knew it would.’
Elias left at dawn, rain fresh. Drove to cemetery, dug up flowers, scattered. No grave needed. Phoned Alex: ‘Truth out. Come home.’
Sun pierced clouds first time in weeks. Not joy, but release. Melancholy lingered—years lost, father dying alone. But truth lightened the load. He breathed deep, rain scent clean. Life reshaped, scarred but forward.