As the sunlight bled across the horizon, the fields opened up like a canvas. Each step imprinted the earth, a solitary dance of resolution and its counterpart: uncertainty.
Upon arriving, I found them: footprints, interspersed with the tall grass. They rushed to the unknown, but never returned. The urgency of their maker left an imprint more profound than any intention I could conjure.
A tentative whisper from the wind asked why we trace paths that lead nowhere. Perhaps those traces tell silent tales of being — the kind words cannot describe.
There was a logbook in an old, weathered shack nearby — a series of names and dates, all entries blank but for their marks. Who were these wanderers? Read the entries for yourself.
I opted instead to sit and listen. Have you ever wondered where these tracks might take you? Pause for reflection and see where silence speaks.