The rain lashed down like whips upon the muddy road, drumming the soil and dragging the wheels deep into the mire. The horses strained against their harnesses, and the old driver gripped the whip with a trembling hand, striking the air more than their backs, as though he were lashing at his fear rather than their slowness.
The road was a hell of pits and sharp turns, with bandits lurking in every bend like wolves in the trees. No one dared to travel it anymore unless forced to—and he was one of the forced.
A weary sigh escaped him, words murmured only to himself:
"Why have I brought this upon myself?"
Then a bitter smile crossed his lips, as the old saying echoed in his head:
"Men die for wealth."
He would never have agreed to such a journey if fate had not cornered him. His eldest daughter had fallen prey to a strange sickness, one that gnawed at her mind and hollowed her body. His meager savings could not buy even a visit from a physician, let alone a cure. And so… he staked his life on this journey that might well end in death.
"Regret will not help me," he muttered, eyes fixed on the road. "It will only weigh down my heart."
He knew too well: if he perished here, his six children would be left with no one.
In quieter days, life had not been so grim. With his horses and his cart he had managed a modest living—hard, yes, but honest. Now all that remained was forward motion and prayer:
"Have mercy, Lord…"
Yet no matter how he tried to banish his thoughts, the image of his passenger clung to him. That woman who had entered his home in her gleaming black dress, her veil concealing everything—except her eyes. Eyes that haunted him even now. For a moment, he had almost turned back to spend the night with his wife, but shame had quickly silenced such weakness.
She had persuaded him—through her strange, deliberate manner—to take her to a distant province, one said to belong to an eccentric lord shrouded in rumor. He searched for an explanation, and thought to himself:
"Perhaps a servant fleeing her master's wife…"
But what unsettled him most was not her dress, nor her words, but the child she cradled in her arms.
And despite all the thoughts swirling in his head about lords and servants, about the ease with which the wealthy destroyed the lives of the poor, one feeling would not leave him:
"How easily they turn us into fuel for their stories."
Then, glancing at her as the lightning split the sky, a chill raced through his bones—for her eyes were not fixed on him… but on something behind him.