The black pickup truck rolled out of town under the scorching midday sun. The driver, a man in his fifties, was transporting goods and some old items from the market.
As the vehicle started moving, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a young boy riding a small bicycle behind him, drenched in sweat, shouting desperately:
“Uncle! Uncle, please stop! Uncle, wait for me!”
The man thought the boy just wanted a lift. Busy with errands, he pressed the gas and sped off.
But throughout the nearly 40-kilometer journey, every time he stopped at a red light or at a gas station, the boy would reappear — panting, his face red and flushed, still pedaling behind him.
Sometimes close, sometimes farther, but always there… always following.
Eventually, fed up and confused, the driver pulled over on a deserted rural road, stepped out, and shouted:
“What’s wrong with you, kid? I told you, I’m not giving anyone a ride!”
But… the boy was nowhere to be seen. The road was empty. Not even the sound of bicycle wheels echoed behind him anymore.
Thinking it must’ve been a heat-induced hallucination, the man got back in and continued driving, trying to shake the uneasy feeling.
Three hours later, he arrived at the warehouse on the outskirts of the city. As he opened the truck’s trunk to unload the goods, his body froze in place.
Lying among the old fabrics was… a small bicycle. The handlebars were broken, the frame twisted and smeared with dried blood.
Wedged in the bike’s frame was an old, yellowed student photo — the same boy who had been chasing him all afternoon.
On the back of the photo were hastily scribbled words:
“I’m the son of the woman who had an accident the day you drove back from the market.
You ran over my bicycle and left.
My mother died…
And I’m still riding after you, just to ask why.”
The driver collapsed to his knees in the middle of the yard. The wind suddenly howled, though the sky was clear and cloudless.
From that day on, the small bicycle remained in the warehouse, incense burning beside it every evening.
But the man… never again dared to drive that same road.
Because he knew — though unseen, a pair of small, silent eyes would always be watching from behind.
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