The last blink

Today, the cars move strictly between the lines; orderly, calm, and one behind the other, just like train cars where none wish to break the sequence. They don’t weave, they don’t zigzag, and they don’t collide. It is good. Very good, in fact. I like the days when I don’t witness any accidents. Though to be honest, I have no idea what day of the week it is. I have never been good at keeping track of days. For me, everything begins with the rising of the sun and ends when the last pair of headlights fades away into the dark. But today is a good day. No accidents so far. Last night, however... Last night was a brutal one. The kind of crash where the flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers and ambulances dance upon the wet asphalt for hours, forcing me to stare at the scene all night long. I was built to shine in the dark. They coated me with a special reflective paint—one that bounces back the glow of oncoming headlights so drivers can see me and find their way. Perhaps if I weren't here, some would lose their way. Perhaps some would realize too late that they needed to turn. Or perhaps... No, it’s better not to overthink. I am just a road sign. Thinking isn't my job. Showing the way is. To my left lies a side street—a winding, indecisive lane that seems to have never quite figured out where it wants to lead. Sometimes drivers turn into it, only to double back a few minutes later. Other times, they never return at all. Truth be told, I have never seen the end of that street. Maybe it doesn't have one. But to my right... Ah, to my right is a different story altogether. A long, unbroken highway. So straight that sometimes I think if the cars just keep going, they will reach the very edge of the earth. Of course, there is a toll booth near the end where they collect money from the drivers. I carry a lot of information on my face: routes, distances, directions, and a few other inscriptions. I am even written in two languages—my native tongue and a foreign one. Sometimes I wonder if someone were to read me and strike up a conversation, would I have to reply in both languages? But I have no voice. Or rather... I have a voice, but no one ever hears it. Even so, I have been talking to everyone for years. To the road. To the guardrail. To the speed bumps. To the lights. Even to the cars that hurtle past me at full speed. The cars, naturally, never answer. Only sometimes, when the road grows quiet, the guardrail speaks back. He is an old friend of mine. Older than me. And if you ask him, he will insist he is still in his prime. A little further down stands a yellow hazard light. He was installed only recently. He is a creature of few words. He blinks constantly, yet rarely ever speaks. I can't quite grasp how one can blink so much while saying so little. Perhaps blinking is his language. Perhaps he is trying to say: “Proceed with caution.” “Slow down.” “Danger ahead.” Or maybe he is saying something else entirely—something beyond my understanding. I, on the other hand, am easily the chatterbox of this stretch of road. Even I can admit that much. Time marches on, and here I remain, standing tall above the street, above the highway. To be completely honest, I am content with my place. One of the greatest strokes of luck in my life is that I was posted over a relatively busy highway. Though lately, traffic has thinned out. Some days, the road becomes so lonely that I can hear the whisper of the wind. On weekends, however, everything changes. The vehicles return in full force. Trucks. Sedans. Vans. Relics of the past. Brand-new models. Cars so pristine that the sunlight dances across their polished lacquer. And worn-out vehicles that have clearly labored for years and look thoroughly exhausted. I see them all. I witness everything. I have seen my fair share of collisions. Usually, it’s rear-end crashes. A sudden slam on the brakes by the car ahead. Excessive speed. Rain making the asphalt slick and treacherous. I love the rain, but I despise the accidents that follow in its wake. Drivers ought to be more careful. They need to maintain distance from the car in front of them. Because distance means time. Time to brake. Time to save a life. I know these things all too well; I’ve watched them unfold for years. Traffic laws may vary from one corner of the world to another, but one truth remains almost universally constant: if you strike someone from behind, you are usually at fault. I’ve seen it happen countless times. Yet, I rarely speak about myself. Truth be told, I don't remember my creation. I don't know the exact day I was forged. I don't know my parents. I don't even know if another sign existed before me that I could call a mother or a father. I only remember one thing. The day they painted my surface green. Then they applied that special reflective layer over me. When they were done, they took a few steps back, looked up at me, and one of them remarked: “Looks good.” That was it. Just those words. And perhaps it was in that very moment that I realized I had a purpose. Not too long ago, they restored me. My color had faded. My reflective sheen no longer glowed as brightly as it once did. When they repainted me, a strange sensation washed over me. It felt as though I had put on a brand-new set of clothes. They didn't move my post, of course. They merely refreshed me. Sometimes I wonder if I am growing old, considering how often they touch up my paint. Yet here I remain, standing firm, continuing to show the way. And for me, that is enough. One day, a curious thing happened. It was one of those ordinary days where nothing out of the ordinary ever occurred. Except this time, it did. An old van pulled over directly beneath me. The driver was a young man. His vehicle looked battered and weary—so worn that I genuinely marveled at how it was still capable of moving at all. The man stepped out. He stared up at me for a long moment. Then he turned his gaze to the left—toward that narrow, winding side street. He looked back up at me and murmured to himself: “Should I go right, or should I go left?” I desperately wanted to answer him. I truly did. I wanted to shout: “Take the right!” But I had no voice. The man stood there in silence for a few moments longer before coming to a decision. He climbed back into his van and steered it to the left, down into that winding, unpredictable lane. I watched his taillights for a long time until they finally dissolved into the distance. I never saw him again. A quiet anxiety crept over me that day. The weather was thick with fog, and that side road was notoriously treacherous. “I hope nothing terrible happened to him,” I thought. Unsurprisingly, no one answered. My fond memories of the highway are few. Most of what I remember consists of wreckage and flashing lights. Yet, I do harbor a few cherished moments. Like the day a caravan of cars passed beneath me. Inside were people clearly embarking on a journey. They were laughing. Honking. One driver even flashed his headlights at me several times. For a moment, I felt as though he were waving at me. Maybe he wasn't. But I preferred to believe that he was. This highway leads to an airport at its terminus, and the right lane is the gateway to it. A peculiar pattern has caught my attention over the years: most of the pristine, expensive cars tend to take the right lane toward the airport. The older models, the heavy-duty trucks, and the work vehicles usually veer off to the left. A question has haunted me for a long time: Why do all the fine, beautiful things always go to the right? Why? Perhaps it’s a foolish question. I am, after all, merely a signpost. It isn't my place to judge the worth of cars. But when you stand in one place for decades, observing the world, questions naturally begin to form. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years. And then, one day, I realized I had grown tired of myself. Not of my duty, mind you, but of the relentless repetition. Every day in the exact same spot. Every day the same stretch of road. Every day the same passing cars. Every day the same silent commands: Go. Stop. Keep Right. Keep Left. Caution. Reduce Speed. I began to ponder. “Is this all my existence will ever be?” I wondered. Being a signpost had become suffocating. I yearned to do something new. I wished I could step down from my metal frame just once. To walk. To catch a ride in a car. To see what the airport looked like. Perhaps even to board a plane and fly away. ...But I had no feet. Just then, the guardrail, who had been silent for ages, spoke up: “Have you lost your mind?” I was startled. “Me?” “Yes, you! Can a road sign ever be anything other than a road sign?” “Perhaps,” I murmured. He let out a dry laugh. “I’ve been standing along this highway for decades,” he said. “Do you think I haven't had dreams of my own?” “What kind of dreams?” I asked. “To have legs one day and walk away,” he replied, pausing briefly. “Or to own a car and drive it myself.” I chuckled. The guardrail seemed offended. “Why are you laughing?” he snapped. “A dream is a dream, isn't it?” “You’re right,” I conceded. “We are inanimate objects,” he continued. “A sign, a guardrail, a light, a concrete pillar... But who says objects aren't allowed to dream?” I fell silent. Because he was right. Perhaps we were merely things fashioned by human hands. Yet, spending years alongside humans had taught us things. We had witnessed their joy. Their terror. Their impatience. Their yearning. And perhaps... their dreams had rubbed off on us. I looked down at the hazard light. “What about you?” I asked. “What is your dream?” The light blinked a few times before responding. “Mine?” “Yes, yours.” He paused, his yellow glow lingering momentarily, before speaking: “I always dreamed of owning a car.” The guardrail and I exchanged a silent glance. “To drive my car all the way to the airport,” the hazard light continued. “And then?” I urged gently. “Buy a ticket.” “And after that?” “Board an airplane.” The guardrail chimed in, “So you want to fly?” “I do,” the light whispered. I gave a soft laugh. “You’ve been a warning light your entire life. You’re always telling others to proceed with caution. Aren't you afraid of flying?” “Perhaps I am,” the light said. He blinked once more, slower this time. “But a person—or a thing—can be afraid and still hold on to a dream.” Silence descended upon me. I loved that line. I loved it deeply. Up until that moment, I had believed that to dare to dream, one had to be fearless. But the hazard light had opened my eyes. Fear and longing could coexist side by side. Suddenly, the hazard light went dark. I waited for the next blink, but it never came. A few seconds ticked by. Still, it remained dark. “Guardrail...” I called out nervously. “Why isn't the light answering?” “His bulb probably burnt out,” the guardrail replied matter-of-factly. “No,” I said. “No?” “Maybe... maybe he actually turned into a car.” The guardrail chuckled. “Maybe he found his car,” I persisted. “Maybe he’s on his way to the airport right now.” “Your imagination is truly wild,” the guardrail remarked. “Is it not beautiful, though?” I asked. He didn't answer right away. Then, softly, he murmured, “Yes... it is.” I stared at the extinguished hazard light. For the very first time, I chose to believe that he had truly departed. Perhaps a car had been waiting for him. Perhaps he had climbed inside. Perhaps he had reached the airport and bought his ticket. And perhaps right now, somewhere high above the clouds, he was no longer blinking. Perhaps he was finally flying. The guardrail was the wisest among us. Because when this road was first laid down, he was placed here long before I was. He used to say, “When a road is built, guarding against danger comes first.” He was right. To my left lay that tricky, winding side street where accidents were bound to happen. They constructed me later—when the routes became clearer, when the road took its final shape, and when humans needed to know where they should and shouldn't go. I was brought here to guide. Years have melted away, and I am still here. Sometimes I realize that perhaps the destination at the end of the road isn't what truly matters. Perhaps what matters most is ensuring that no one loses their way along the journey. Perhaps my duty isn't merely to command: “Go this way.” Perhaps my purpose is to gently remind them: “There is a way forward.” Even when the fog rolls in thick. Even in the dead of night. Even when the road is deserted. Even when the driver has no idea where they are heading. I am still here. Standing tall. My paint may be touched up a few more times. My reflective coat may fade again. My steel body may rust over time. But as long as there is someone looking up at me, I will fulfill my duty. I will show them the way. And perhaps one day... Someone will drive past, glance up at me, and never suspect that behind these cold, rigid letters, a road sign lived a whole life for years. A sign that witnessed wrecks and laughter, rain and travelers, lost souls... and even a humble hazard light that dared to dream of flight. I am still here. Right above the road. Right at the fork in the path. And if you ever find yourself wondering why a road sign stands in the exact same spot for years without ever growing weary, the answer is simple: Because perhaps one person... Just one single soul... In all these years, might need the path I am showing. And for me, that is more than enough.