Tranzits Ejot Pie Tevis -
He reached the garden gate. The wood was slightly more weathered, the latch a bit rustier. He stood there for a moment, listening to the morning birds wake up. Then, the front door creaked open.
The neon sign of the roadside café flickered, casting a rhythmic blue glow over Ralfs’ boots. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The bassline of an old cassette tape seemed to pulse in his very marrow, timing his stride to a beat that had been driving him forward since sunset. He was "walking to her"—just like the song said.
The highway stretched ahead, a silver ribbon under the Latvian moon. To his left, the dark silhouette of the pine forest stood like a silent audience. To his right, the occasional car blurred past, its headlights momentarily blinding him before swallowing the world back into shadow. He didn’t try to hitch a hike. This journey wasn’t about speed; it was about the distance he was willing to put behind him to prove he was coming back for good. “Es nāku pie tevis...” he hummed under his breath. Tranzits Ejot Pie Tevis
The phrase (Walking to You) is the title of a beloved song by the Latvian synth-pop group Tranzīts . It’s an anthem of longing, the rhythm of footsteps on a long road, and the unwavering pull of someone waiting at the end of it.
As dawn began to bleed grey and violet over the horizon, the familiar jagged skyline of their village appeared. His legs ached with a dull, heavy heat, but his pace quickened. He turned off the main road onto the dirt path where the scent of jasmine and woodsmoke hung in the air. He reached the garden gate
Elīna stepped onto the porch, clutching a shawl against the morning chill. She didn't scream or run. She simply watched him, her eyes tracing the dust on his jacket and the exhaustion in his smile. Ralfs stopped a few feet away, the long walk finally over.
He remembered the last time he’d seen Elīna. The rain had been cold, and the silence between them even colder. He’d left looking for a "better life" in the city, chasing echoes of success that turned out to be nothing more than hollow noise. Now, three years later, he was stripped of the pretenses. He had a worn backpack, a heart full of rehearsed apologies, and the rhythm of the road. Then, the front door creaked open
She looked at the long, empty road behind him and then back into his eyes. A small, knowing smile broke across her face—the kind of smile that meant the music hadn't stopped after all.
