Spontanéité

Dear Visitor // short story

I like to read things that kind of challenge reality, like the idea of reality, things that kind of trip me up and make me question everything. Like Made You Up by Francesca Zappia, or a Wattpad book Śtars by @lilycandy_97. So I tried writing one myself. I don't think it worked. But I'd like some opinions, please. As long as it's not hate or anything.
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Underlined by insomnia and shadowed by dreamlessness, her eyes, dark oceans of melted chocolate mixed with the abyss of night, linger on the road as she passes. It is well-worn, this wide path, flattened by time and eroded by footprints, what used to be soft grey sand has hardened to appear as tar. The ride is smooth because of it, and the rolling of the wooden wheels is silent, although the soft clipping of hooves is not. She sits alone, gaze fixed on what lies beyond her reach as the road they travel shrinks from the horizon. And all around the diminishing charcoal line is bare nothingness. Dry, cracked earth and pale skeletons appear from time to time, as well as the occasional fistful of clumped yellow grass. Nothing else remains of this forest, not even stumps.

Her eyes lift to the sky, where a lonely arcing scratch of blackness drifts, and releases a mournful call. Even its voice is dry. There are no clouds, not even the smallest tuft of white hinted at in the vast blueness that covers the earth. It is all bare, stripped of anything that could suggest life, empty. Barren.

She is jolted gently when the hooves fall silent, and when the door is opened, she clambers out to face the man driving as he picks at a fraying thread on his silken cloak.

"This is as far as I go," he says simply, and shuts the door of the tiny carriage. He looks at her, then climbs back into his place and takes hold of the reins to the large white and grey horse. "I'm told it won't be too difficult for you to find your way." His tone is one of utter dismissal. "I do hope you enjoy your stay," he adds. Sarcasm drenches his every word. He clicks his tongue and flicks the reins, and the tired old horse starts off again, taking a tight turn before heading back down the road in the direction from which they came.

She doesn't bother watching the man go, turning her back on his retreating figure to squint at a shadow in the distance. She sighs heavily before beginning her trek down the road, glad she isn't wearing a cloak or carrying anything that would add to her lack of energy.

"And to think this place was once beautiful," she mutters as she walks, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the merciless sun.

"In a way, it still is," a familiar voice comments airily, and she turns to see his translucent and ever-ambiguous smile. His freckles are barely visible, his dark hair almost like a floating shadow over his pale face.

She shakes her head at him. "Not sure what you mean." She sighs. "At least you're not real, Esdras. You can't feel the searing gaze of the sun on your skin."

He shrugs. "You use my unreality as a constant excuse." She gives him a look. "What? You do. Besides, this place isn't all bad. Look at how beautiful those trees are. I'm sure you'd love to sketch them."

She snorts. "Not any time soon. As soon as we get there," she eyes the crumbling walls as they approach, "I'm going to do what I can to avoid coming out again for as long as possible."

He shrugs. "We've reached it," he says, and she turns to find they have come to the end of the road. She cranes her neck, squinting up as the crumbled and time- and weather-worn walls tower above her. A huge open gateway lacking any gates arches over her head. When she looks back at the road stretching far, far away, she finds herself alone again. 'That was quick,' she almost says, then rolls her eyes at herself. He won't be responding for a while.