When I was a kid, my dad used to work as a truck driver. He would tell me stories about all the places that he had visited, and people that he had met.
Dad would stay away for a long time, but he would never miss a birthday or a holiday with me.
Just once he missed a Christmas Eve.
I remember that night, grandma seemed worried and we couldn’t reach him out. The food was tasteless, and I couldn’t sleep well.
When I woke up the next day, dad was there. He told us that there was an accident with the truck, the tire caught on fire. His lucky was an old lady that lived near where he had to stop. She helped him put out the fire, and he spent the night at her house, because he was too shaken to drive.
Days later dad would still talk about the old lady, that he wanted to visit her and bring something as a thank you gift. I wanted to meet her too, so when he finally went, I was with him.
When he found the place, he seemed confused. There was nothing there. I asked him if he was sure that we were at the right place, but the little lake where they got the water to put out the fire was there. As well as the tree with the strange root where the old lady sitted that night to smoke her pipe.
The tire marks from dad's truck were still there, too.
A little walk down the road, and we found the remains of a house, old and long abandoned.
My dad walked through the ruins with a sad and distante look in his eyes.
-Dad, is that...?
-The house? Yeah. I-I don't understard...
It was clear that nobody lived there for years.
Suddenly when I stepped in I felt it under my foot.
We looked down, and there was the old pipe.
We went back to the truck in silence, and dad never talked about that night after that.
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