The Permission of the Road

More about The Permission of the Road

She pauses where the stones begin to narrow, where the road stops pretending it knows where it’s going. The cobbles are old enough to have forgotten their first footsteps, but they remember weight. They remember patience.

Her hair catches the light the way wheat does just before harvest—soft, deliberate, unhurried. The gold braid resting against it isn’t decoration so much as proof: something made by hands that understood repetition, pressure, the virtue of doing one thing well. It keeps her anchored to herself as much as it keeps the wind out of her eyes.

She’s not looking back for anyone. What’s behind her has already agreed to stay there. The wall on her right is thick with ivy, each leaf gripping stone as if the past might slide away if it loosened its hold. She respects that instinct, even if she doesn’t share it. She has learned that some things are meant to cling, and some are meant to walk on.

Her dress carries a quiet map—leaves, blossoms, small repeating decisions. It is the kind of pattern you only notice once you stop rushing. Green against blue, orange like a memory of warmth rather than warmth itself. A fabric that understands seasons.

Ahead, the land opens. Hills soften into distance. The sky is undecided, clouded but generous, as if it might offer rain or clarity with equal sincerity. She inhales, not because she needs to, but because the moment deserves it.

There is no grand destination waiting for her. No revelation hiding around the bend. What she carries is enough: the certainty of her own pace, the knowledge that she can stop or continue without asking permission. The road will accept either choice.

She steps forward—not to escape, not to arrive—but simply to remain in motion. And the stones, faithful as ever, make room for her weight and keep her secret.