How I survived car accident

The screech of tires was the last thing I consciously registered before the world became a chaotic blur of metal and glass. My name is Elias Thorne, a mid-level accountant with a penchant for obscure 1970s prog rock and an unhealthy addiction to lukewarm coffee. Beside me, crumpled against the passenger seat, was Clara, my impossibly optimistic and perpetually cheerful colleague, (a walking, talking ray of sunshine who somehow managed to find joy in spreadsheet reconciliation). The impact itself was less a bang and more a sickening crunch, a slow-motion unraveling of reality. I remember a strange calm descending as the airbag deployed, a stark contrast to the pandemonium unfolding around us. My immediate thought wasn't fear, but a bizarre sense of detachment, like watching a particularly bad car crash movie unfold in slow motion. Clara was unconscious, a disturbing stillness replacing her usual vivacity.

The smell of gasoline was sharp, acrid. Smoke curled from the crumpled hood of my car, a mangled mess of twisted metal and shattered glass. Adrenaline finally kicked in, a potent cocktail of fear and determination. My phone, miraculously intact, lay on the floor. I fumbled for it, my hands trembling. 911. The words felt distant, unreal. As I explained our location�a remote stretch of highway known for its hairpin bends�I noticed something peculiar. A faint, rhythmic humming emanated from the wreckage, seemingly unrelated to the engine�s distressed groans. It was a low, almost subsonic drone, a vibration that resonated deep within my chest. Then, I saw it: a small, silver device embedded in the dashboard, pulsing faintly with the same humming rhythm. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie�a miniature, sleek black box.

The emergency services arrived within minutes, sirens wailing, lights flashing. Paramedics attended to Clara, their faces grim but efficient. As they carefully extracted her from the wreckage, I felt a surge of relief. She was alive, though badly bruised. Later, at the hospital, while awaiting X-rays, I discreetly pocketed the mysterious device. The humming had stopped. The police report concluded the accident was caused by a tire blowout. But I knew better. The small silver box, still warm to the touch in my pocket, hinted at a far more unusual explanation � a near-miss, a twist of fate perhaps, masked by a mundane tire failure. I was alive, Clara was alive. That was all that mattered. But the mystery of the humming device would stay with me. It was a secret shared only between me, Clara, and the wreckage of a car that could have been our tomb.