short fiction · 2026-10-16

At the Edge

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

A traveler stands where the road dissolves into mist, boots sunk in the soft edge of certainty. He offers no map, only a question whispered to the wind: what if the path is not a line but a breath? Around him, the trees lean inward, their leaves turning pages of unwritten stories. He smiles, not because he knows, but because the unknown invites him to step forward, each footfall a comma in a sentence that refuses to end.