She walks along the old road, its surface broken, cracked, revealing the dirt underneath. 

There are soft spots in the pavement scarred with plants, an occasional sapling, alive or dead. 

Not an easy road to walk. She’s careful. Always. 

Her eyes move along its lines, reading its rough syntax, wet on the edges, a dark, moist shadow frame. 

She places her hands flat upon a remaining level surface. 

Debris, pebbles, and a scree of thoughts stick to her. 

She raises up her hands like opening a book. 

How odd they look, their silhouette, alien. 

She knows where the road goes, down to the lighthouse, where the coast trail flirts with beaches, towns, and a highway, winding in and out of a forest that meets the ocean. 

She yells, for no particular reason, but for all the reasons in the world. 

She turns her head and looks back. 

She won’t walk forever.