The path rose gently, and by mid-morning, she had entered the first stretch of oak woodland. The light changed here, filtering through the canopy in long, dusty shafts that turned the air into something almost liquid. The sound of her own breathing grew louder in the stillness. She had expected solitude to feel lonely. Instead, it felt like a room she had been trying to enter for years, and someone had finally left the key in the lock.
“You have the map I drew?” Marisol asked at last. Her voice was not unkind, but it carried the weight of someone who had watched too many departures and too few returns. the pilgrimage - ch2
She had rounded a bend in the path and found him sitting on a large, flat rock, rubbing his left foot. He was a man in his fifties, with a weathered face and hands that looked like they had done hard work. His pack was small and old, held together with string in places. He looked up as she approached and smiled—a tired, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The path rose gently, and by mid-morning, she