The path narrowed as I left the last shreds of town behind, stretching long and uneven through fields where the earth rose and dipped in gentle waves. Grass had grown tall here, uncut and untamed, swaying in time with the breeze. The air smelled faintly of brine now, a salt edge threading through each breath. It told me I was near, though the ocean itself remained hidden, waiting until the land finally relented to its endless sprawl.
The Dawnhound kept close at my side. Its coat gleamed faintly in the morning light, ears flicking now and then at a sound hidden in the weeds—a field mouse darting between stalks, a cricket catching the sun. The Phaseling drifted lazily above me, its glow steady, warm, though less insistent than it often was. Perhaps it, too, sensed the calm. No predators here, no press of danger. Only the stretch of road, the whisper of the grass, the weight of my own thoughts.
For once, the silence was not a threat. It was a mirror.
And in that silence, my mother's voice returned.
"You carry more than your steps with you," she had said. "You carry the weight of those who walked before, and the burden of what you will leave behind."
I had been younger when she told me—though perhaps not young enough to excuse how little I had understood. I had nodded then, eager to leave, to prove myself, to make her words feel like a blessing instead of a warning. But here, on this path that seemed to stretch into forever, I wondered if she had seen me more clearly than I had ever seen myself.
Did she know I would falter like this? That the ground beneath my feet would one day feel less like a road and more like a question I could not answer?
The Dawnhound gave a soft whine, pulling me back into the present. I crouched and pressed my hand to its head, fingers brushing the warm fur between its ears. Its steady eyes met mine, searching, as though asking if I knew where we were going. I almost told it the truth—that I wasn't sure. That I wasn't sure of anything. Instead, I gave a small smile and whispered, "We'll keep walking."
It wagged its tail once, satisfied, as though that was enough.
I rose again, adjusting the strap of my pack, and kept moving.
The sun climbed higher as I walked, the sky paling into the kind of blue that carried no warmth. Clouds stretched thin like pulled wool across the horizon. The ocean was still only a promise in the air, but each step carried me closer to it, closer to whatever it might reveal.
My thoughts drifted as easily as the wind through the grass.
I remembered my mother's hands, rough from work, yet always steady when she placed them on my shoulders. She had a way of looking at me as if she could already see the mistakes I would make, and forgive them, yet still expect me to rise above them. She never raised her voice, never needed to. Her words carried weight enough without volume.
The last time I had seen her, the house had been half in shadow. She'd stood by the door, leaning against the frame as I packed. The light had caught in her hair, threads of gray glinting like silver wire. She hadn't tried to stop me. She hadn't begged, though perhaps part of me had wanted her to. Instead, she had only said that line, the one I carried still: "You carry more than your steps with you."
At the time, I had thought she meant responsibility. Duty. That my choices would matter to more than just myself. It had sounded noble, even righteous. Now, with nothing but empty fields on either side, I wondered if she had meant something far simpler. That in leaving, I carried her hopes and her fears, too. That in my wandering, I left her with silence.
And maybe, in truth, I was carrying more failure than promise.
A ridge appeared ahead, low and rolling, but high enough to break the monotony of flat land. I climbed it slowly, my boots crunching against gravel and stray stones. At the top, the land fell away, and there it was—the sea.
It spread before me like a sheet of tarnished silver, stretching farther than the eye could measure, broken only by the faint line of horizon where sky and water kissed. Waves rolled in quiet rhythm, brushing the shore with a sound so constant it was almost a heartbeat.
For a moment, I simply stood there, breath caught in my chest. The sea was not violent, not roaring, but vast. Its stillness was deceptive—an immensity that did not need to shout to be felt.
My mother had told me once that the sea reveals what people hide. That its patience is endless, its memory longer than stone. "Nothing can lie to it for long," she had said. "It will strip you down until all that remains is truth."
I felt small against it now, like a shadow cast on the sand. Was that what she had meant to prepare me for? Not the monsters, not the ruins, not the scavenging—but this moment? The reckoning with silence, the confrontation with doubt?
I let my pack slip from my shoulder, setting it down in the grass at my feet. The Dawnhound sat beside it, tongue lolling, content just to be here. The Phaseling hovered lower, its glow softening, as if even it respected the sea's gravity.
And me? I closed my eyes.
What truth would the sea strip from me? That I was not a hero? That every step I had taken had been more about running than seeking? Was that the strength I pretended to carry was only a mask stretched too thin?
The questions came in waves, breaking against me one after the other. I had no answers, only the ache of knowing I might not be strong enough to find them.
I walked down the slope toward the shore, each step slower than the last. Pebbles gave way to sand, and the wind shifted, colder now, carrying the sting of salt against my skin. The waves curled and fell, curled and fell, indifferent to my presence.
Kneeling at the water's edge, I touched the surface with my fingertips. Cold. Sharp. Real. It left a sheen on my skin, glistening in the light.
For a heartbeat, I imagined my mother standing beside me, her voice steady in the roar of silence. "The sea does not lie."
I pulled my hand back and stared at the wet trace left behind.
Perhaps that was why I had come—to see if I could bear to face myself, with nothing to shield me but the horizon. Perhaps I would find an answer in its endlessness. Or perhaps it would only take from me the illusions I still clung to.
Either way, I knew I could not turn back.
The Dawnhound padded forward, nose dipping toward the foam as though curious. The Phaseling circled lazily above, casting its faint light against the dark sweep of water. Together, we stood there—creature, spirit, and man—three figures dwarfed by the ocean's patience.
And though my chest was tight with doubt, I took a breath and whispered into the wind, not sure if I spoke to the sea, to my mother, or myself:
"I'll keep walking."