Threads of Fire

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Parked Dreams She wasn’t just parked—she was exposed. Tilted awkwardly in the hospital car park, her rusted chassis sagged into the cracked asphalt like a confession whispered under the harsh midday sun. The gearbox had shattered, grinding to a halt with a metallic groan that still echoed in Mr. Mavhunga’s nightmares. The battery had flatlined, its cables brittle and coated in dust. The license had expired, a faded sticker curling at the edges like a dying leaf. And the insurance? A distant memory, buried under the weight of school fees, grocery bills, and the relentless chokehold of credit repayments in Zimbabwe’s unforgiving economy. He passed her every day, the scent of hospital antiseptic mingling with the car’s stale oil and sun-baked leather. Nurses saw her, their footsteps crunching on gravel as they hurried past. Patients saw her, their murmurs blending with the hum of distant generators. Colleagues saw her, their sidelong glances sharp as the glint off her cracked windshield....