Elias looked at the horizon where the sun was beginning to bleed into the dark. He didn't need the radio anymore. He put the car in gear, finally knowing exactly where he was going.

The neon sign of the "Roadhouse Blues" club flickered, casting a bruised purple light over Elias as he gripped the steering wheel of his battered Ford. On the radio, the gravelly, soul-searing opening chords of began to play. It was a song that didn't just play; it haunted.

"I'm right where you left me," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the static. "Just waiting for the song to end."

He pulled over near a lonely phone booth outside of El Paso. The desert wind felt like a cold breath against his neck. He dialed her old number, knowing it was likely disconnected, but needing to hear the silence on the other end to prove he was still looking.

He remembered the night Clara left. There had been no shouting, just the quiet click of a suitcase and the smell of jasmine lingering in an empty hallway. Since then, her absence had become a physical weight. Every time Dan McCafferty’s voice hit that peak of desperation, Elias felt the ghost of her hand on the dashboard.