I felt tears building in my own eyes, even though I’d never met Michael, didn’t know him at all. «But he couldn’t make it,» Thomas said. «He was too weak. And a few weeks before he died, he told me something strange. He said he’d programmed this address into his GPS with a specific label: ‘Home.’ He said it was an act of faith, that whoever bought the car, if they were the kind of person who paid attention, who followed curiosity, who wondered about things, they’d see that address and maybe be curious enough to follow it.»
«But why? Why would he do that?»
Thomas looked at me with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable. «Because Michael believed that the universe brings people together for reasons, that there is no such thing as a meaningless connection. He told me, ‘Dad, whoever buys this car and comes to our place, they’re looking for something, even if they don’t know what. Be there for them. Tell them our story. Complete the journey for me. Let someone else see our sunset.'»
I sat in stunned silence, processing this. A dying man had programmed a GPS address, hoping that whoever bought his car would be curious enough to follow it and that his father would be there to meet them.
«I’ve been coming here every Saturday since Michael died,» Thomas said, «waiting. Most Saturdays, no one comes, but I keep coming because I promised him. And today, you came.»
«I almost deleted the address,» I said. «I thought it was just left over by mistake.»
«But you didn’t. You followed it. Why?»
I thought about it. «I don’t know. Curiosity, I guess. Boredom. I didn’t have anything else to do today.»
«That’s enough,» Thomas said. «That’s exactly enough. Michael knew that someone who followed curiosity, even small, seemingly pointless curiosity, was the right kind of person to hear his story.» We sat in silence for a while, looking out at the view.
Finally, Thomas asked, «So, Ben, why were you so bored that you had nothing better to do on a Saturday than follow a random GPS address?»
I laughed bitterly. «Because my life is empty. I’m 26. I work at a call center that I hate. I dropped out of grad school because I couldn’t see the point, and I feel like I’m just existing instead of living. I have no direction, no purpose, no idea what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.»
Thomas nodded, as if he’d suspected this. «You’re lost.»
«Yeah, I guess I am.»
«Michael was like that once. In his early 20s, he’d graduated college with a business degree because that seemed practical. And then he’d gotten a job at an insurance company because that seemed responsible. And he was miserable, completely, utterly miserable.»
«What changed?»
«He took a photography class, just for fun, on a whim, because he’d always liked taking pictures on his phone. And something clicked. He realized he’d been living the life he thought he was supposed to live instead of the life he wanted to live. So he quit his job, bought a camera and a backpack, and started traveling. His photographs got noticed. He built a career. And for the next ten years, he lived more fully than most people do in eighty.»
Thomas turned to look at me. «You followed this GPS address for no logical reason. You drove two hours to a place you’d never been to see what ‘home’ meant to a stranger. That’s not the action of someone who’s truly empty, Ben. That’s the action of someone who’s searching.»
«Searching for what?»
«That’s the question, isn’t it? Michael didn’t know he was searching for photography until he found it. Maybe you won’t know what you’re searching for until you find it either. But the fact that you’re still curious, still willing to follow small impulses, that’s important. That’s the difference between existing and living.»
We talked for hours. Thomas told me more stories about Michael, about his adventures, his philosophy, his belief that life was meant to be explored rather than simply survived. I told Thomas about my own life, my fears, my sense of wasting time while everyone else seemed to have figured things out. As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in oranges and pinks, Thomas said, «Michael loved this time of day. The light. The way everything glows.»
We sat in silence, watching the sunset together, a 26-year-old lost kid and a 73-year-old grieving father brought together by a dead man’s faith that curiosity creates connections. As the last light faded, Thomas pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. «Michael left this with me. He said to give it to whoever followed the GPS. He wrote it in his final weeks when he was too weak to do much else.»
With shaking hands, I took the envelope. Inside was a letter, handwritten in a slightly shaky script.
«To whoever is reading this,
You bought my car, and you were curious enough to follow a GPS address to nowhere. That tells me something about you. You’re searching. Maybe you don’t know what for, but you’re looking. I’m dying as I write this. I’m 32 years old, and I have maybe a month left. And the biggest thing I’ve learned in this final year is that life isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s not about perfect plans or knowing exactly where you’re going. It’s about curiosity, about following the thing that interests you, even when it doesn’t make sense, about saying yes to small impulses.
You drove two hours to a mountain overlook for no logical reason. You followed curiosity instead of deleting an address. That’s beautiful. That’s what living actually is. My dad is probably with you right now. He’s grieving. Losing your child is unnatural and devastating, even when that child is an adult. But he’s also one of the wisest, kindest people I know. Talk to him. Let him tell you about our adventures. Let him share what he’s learned.
And then, take your own adventures. They don’t have to be big. They don’t have to make sense to anyone else. They just have to make you curious, make you feel alive, make you want to see what happens next. I spent ten years as a photographer, traveling the world, and it was incredible. But you know what my favorite memories are? Sitting on that bench with my dad, watching the sunset, talking about nothing and everything. The quiet moments. The connections.
You’re connected to me now, stranger. You’re completing the journey I couldn’t make. You’re sitting in the place I loved most, with the person I loved most, watching the sunset I wished I could see one more time. Thank you for that. Thank you for being curious. Thank you for following a random GPS address when you could have deleted it. Don’t wait until you’re dying to realize that the point of life is simply to live it.
Follow curiosity. Say yes to things. Don’t worry so much about whether you’re on the right path. There is no right path. There’s just the path you’re on and whether you’re paying attention to it. Take care of yourself, and take care of my dad. He needs people around him who understand that life is short and connections matter. Thank you for completing this journey for me.
Michael Carver»
I was crying by the time I finished reading. Thomas was crying too. We sat together on that bench in the fading light, two strangers connected by a dead man’s letter, and for the first time in two years, I felt something other than emptiness. I felt seen. I felt like maybe my curiosity, the same impulse that had led me to follow a random GPS address, wasn’t stupidity or aimlessness. Maybe it was exactly what Michael said: a way of living instead of just existing.
«Will you come back?» asked Thomas as we walked back to our cars in the darkness.
«Yes,» I said immediately, «if that’s okay.»
«More than okay. I’ve been coming here every Saturday, sitting alone with my grief. Having someone to share it with… that would mean a lot.»
So I came back the next Saturday, and the Saturday after that, and the one after that. Thomas and I developed an unlikely friendship. He’d tell me stories about Michael’s adventures, about the photographs he’d taken, about the philosophy of life he’d developed through travel and experience. I’d tell Thomas about my week, about small moments of curiosity or interest, about things I was thinking about trying.
«I’ve been thinking about taking a photography class,» I told him one Saturday, two months after our first meeting. «I don’t know if I’m any good at it, but I’m curious.»
Thomas smiled, the first really genuine smile I’d seen from him. «Then do it. Don’t worry about being good. Just follow the curiosity.»
So I took a photography class—community college, beginner level, nothing impressive—but I loved it. The technical challenges, the way you had to really look at things to photograph them well, the satisfaction of capturing a moment. I wasn’t as talented as Michael had been, that was clear from the start, but I was interested, and interest felt like enough. Four months after our first meeting, I quit my job at the call center.
