In the colorless night where even the sky is dull, the mountains blend into the nebulous clouds. Fog hangs like linens between the trees, the warm asphalt road cuts through the woods like a river, and mice chitter between the weeds beneath the wooden guard rail of the almost abandoned overlook.

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On the opposite side of the road, a fox begins her hunt. The fog whispers noise through the woods like a wives’ tale and she has taken notice. Carefully, the fox leaves the safety of the brush and crosses the road, but she stalls halfway as blinding lights round the bend. They submerge the world in gold; even her ruddy fur.

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Her joints lock as she stares at her approaching fate. She has seen these roaring, oil-slick beasts before but they're usually rancid and loud. For this one, there is no noise, no stench, nothing to warn her of the impending car besides the golden headlights and the fog reflecting them.

But as the car races through her she is untouched, if not a little more damp and cold.

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In awe, the fox sees straight through the car and watches two men struggling against the wheel. One is in a police uniform, panicking, while the other is well-dressed and exalted by relief. In an instant, the calm man gains control and forces the car careening off the overlook.

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The fox watches as the golden, shimmering mirage disappears into the shadows of the valley and is consumed by the mist.

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This affair has interrupted nothing. The guardrail is unbroken. The mice still stir between the weeds. Not even the fog is disturbed.

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Few creatures recognize this routine– the ghost car, the men fighting inside, and how their fate replays without rhyme.

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It is certainly of no consequence to the fox, who simply crosses the road, crouches as she approaches the chittering mice, and stalks her dinner across the overlook like all the nights before.