I only have a few wrinkled change in my pocket, which is barely enough to buy a ticket. The sun burned the road. I stood on the side of the road and stretched out my finger — who would be in the next stopped car? Is it the truck driver who is always humming the same old song, or the young couple holding the steering wheel nervously and hiding secrets in the trunk? This is the opening of _Road 96_ for me. No name, no background, I’m just another teenager trying to escape from this country called Petria. And I have walked this road many times with different identities.
Every journey is a new beginning. The game won’t tell me where to go, but only give me a map and a little starting money. Should I hitchhike or walk into the dilapidated restaurant with neon lights on the roadside? Should I trust the stranger who offered to give me a ride at the gas station, or should I walk alone through the dark forest at night? Every choice is not a right or wrong question, but a door. After pushing it open, it may be warm help or a dangerous scam. I once had a hot home-cooked meal for helping an old lady repair a car, and I also lost all the trays because I got into a car I shouldn’t get on. The first thing this road taught me is that trust is the most precious and dangerous thing here.
The strange thing is that although the teenager played is different every time, some things seem to be passed on. A diary left by the last teenager in a cave may be accidentally read by the next teenager; a musician I have helped desperately will later hear him sing the song he was writing when we met on the radio. Those profound encounters and those important decisions, like the seeds of memory, scattered on the road, were inadvertently stopped by later people. We are not the same person, but we are all walking for the same goal — across the border of Highway 96, which symbolizes freedom.
The people I met on the road are telling the stories of this country. There are middle-aged couples who are disappointed in the government and just want to escape with their savings; there are young students who firmly believe that change is coming and secretly distribute leaflets; there are also convenience store clerks who seem indifferent but will quietly show you the safe path on a rainy night. Politics is not a word in the news. It is a specific face, a silent dinner, and the meaningful eyes of the checkpoint soldiers when they glance at your ID card. I walked through the luxurious villa area and curled up in the abandoned carriages of the slums. All the light and scars of this country were spread out on this long road.
You can’t reach the end every time. Sometimes I will be arrested halfway because of a wrong choice, and sometimes I will be exhausted only a few kilometers from the border. But when I stood at the starting point with a new identity again, the desire did not disappear, but became clearer because of all the previous “I” experiences. Those seemingly failed journeys have become looming signposts under the feet of the latter.
Finally, when a teenager under me really stepped across the border and looked back at the land behind him, what surged into my mind was not simple joy, but a complex peace. That highway is no longer just a road. It has become a collection of all encounters and separations, all trusts and doubts, all losses and hopes.
After quitting the game for a long time, I could still hear the sound of tires running over the sand. _Road 96_ does not tell the story of a hero. It makes me walk the same road full of possibilities with many different pairs of eyes. It makes me believe that in an era full of uncertainty, every little kindness, every brave ride, and even every failed attempt may be an indispensable puzzle that leads to freedom. And the real change often begins with the seemingly accidental hand-raising on the roadside.
