The truck leaned awkwardly in a corner of the yard, as if it understood it wasn’t wanted. Its shape was crooked, and its hood was smashed, making it seem like it had crashed into too many poor choices. The paint had long been replaced by rust, resulting in a patchy layer of brown and dull gray. One door wouldn’t shut completely, and the windows were so dirty they appeared as if they had been covered in smoke from the inside. The front bumper hung low, held on by a rope that wore out more with every trip.
Every sound it makes sounds like a complaint, it's clattering is in pieces, the engine struggling to breath, and the shaking brakes that used to be sharp. Those that pass looks at it, trying to find out how it was still working. Children pointed at it, and some even laughed at it. But it kept moving forward.
Its unattractiveness ran deeper than just its exterior—it was embedded in the very structure of the vehicle. Yet, that wear told stories: unpaved roads, heavy cargo, night journeys, and early mornings. It had experienced more than any shiny, brand-new truck would ever know. And while it might not catch anyone’s eye for admiration, it didn’t need that. It was still on the go. And that was enough.
