Where are you going, Traveler

Lost, wandering, yet still knowing where one is going. The light faded from the sky as the golden moon rose; time means nothing to those who don't bother to keep track. Adrift amidst the wind that picked up over the moonlit pasture, glowing moths fluttered by, as though they thought themselves butterflies. These moths were not the only living contradictions roaming the rural countryside. Along the way, lone wolves could be seen traveling in packs, their journey unknown, but all those on a journey can find camaraderie. The traveler's destination was an unknown cottage, but it was certain that someone awaited them there.

Stars spread across the expanse of the midnight-blue sky, vast and empty, filling a black canvas only for the day to come and erase its picture from human view. They are not gone; no, the stars remain, older than us, but young blood often forgets what is out of sight. That is why some travel—to forget, to run, to search and find, to take.

The road is long, stretching out from both ends: what has been traveled and what will be, to have seen and to see, while closing oneself off to what is deemed too blinding. Left alone for too long, only looking at what you perceive will leave a void that others could fill, but it is a chosen void.

The walk along the dirt road is peaceful; places are always peaceful when they lack human presence. The thought that people stem from nature almost seems absurd at this point, the disconnect between the two an abyssal canyon of its own nature, yet the statement remains true. A wild radish grows along the path. If you did not know it was a wild radish, you would trample right over it, but to those who do know—some knowledge is given to few—it is a source to feed a need. With a tug, shift, and pull, the white and pink radish was dragged out of the ground, its true body illuminated by the full moon. Bagging the shaken radish and trudging ever forward, the slight darkness was only a minor inconvenience to those accustomed to walking in the shadows.

Beyond the serene pasture lies a meadow filled with wildflowers, their minute colors monochrome in the nightly hour. In this meadow sits a cozy, candle-lit cottage, and next to it lies a small body of water, the starlit sky mirrored in the pond. The traveler walked up to the cottage door and adjusted their appearance, neat and tidy, already prepared.

The business the traveler dealt in was, to others, one of mystery—never fully understood yet instinctively grasped. The customers never came to the traveler; the traveler went to them—all of them, eventually everyone, except those who claim to be immortal and can actually prove it. The claim of immortality is an old delusion; none have proven they could walk upon the path and, at its end, not meet the traveler.

The traveler knocked once, then twice, politely. The door opened to a young man, his eyes an aggravated red, blurry with unshed tears. He squinted at the traveler and stepped aside, allowing the traveler into the cottage without a word. After all, what else could he do? The traveler glided their way to a backroom, which held a simple bed and a single old man. His breathing was ragged, like air being pulled through slime—thick and wet. Coughing would not help anymore; he was drowning on land, being asphyxiated by his own body.

The traveler approached the old man and sat on the edge of the bed. The rest of those residing in the cottage entered the room: an old woman, a young woman, and the young man from earlier. The traveler sat and watched them patiently, as everyone waited for the inevitable—everyone's story ends the same way.

The traveler turned toward the old man, observing as his eyes closed and his breathing became shallow, empty, and hollow. Leaning down slowly, the traveler pressed a single kiss to the man's forehead.

It was done, just like that. The traveler got up, leaving the grieving family behind, and made their way to the entrance. The door opened and closed—a conclusion. Whether finite or infinite depends on individual interpretation. All that the traveler knew was that even death itself would eventually hope for an end.