Around you is void.
There may be mountains, or houses, or greenery, or any manner of things. But all is swallowed up by the darkness outside, and on the other side of your windows, your own surroundings are half-obscured by the dark as well.
It’s a lonely hour, long before the dawn. Or, well, it would be, if it weren’t for all the others.
Ahead of you, hundreds of red lights move in a slow processional, all headed to the same destination. You’re moving, which is good, and it takes some effort to keep from being entranced by the parade of lights traveling up the mountain pass. You wonder, with a yawn and a sip of coffee, if this is what pilgrimages feel like.
After all, you have good reason to believe that each of the red lights ahead has the same goal as you: to see the eclipse—a rare celestial event that, in another time, would be a great source of magic and awe. We know now that it’s not the end of the world or even anything beyond “really cool to see”, but that doesn’t lessen the desire for many to partake in something so unusual and powerful, even if that power is in the revelry of nature rather than anything holy.
And it’s odd, you think, that there are so many of you here and now, moving forward in silence at an ungodly hour to the same destination. It’s unifying in a way that the freeway’s transience so rarely is. It’s special, much like the eclipse you’re all going to see.
Now, if only the people behind you had headlights that didn’t use the full concentrated power of the sun.