The road carried me farther from the town with each passing day. At first I expected the sound of bells to follow me, as they had for so long, but eventually even their echo faded into memory. Fields stretched wide and quiet beneath the open sky, untouched by the sickness that had hollowed out the place I left behind. It felt strange to walk through villages where people still laughed, where doors remained open and smoke rose warmly from chimneys.
Yet even as I passed through these lively streets, I could not help but wonder how long such joy might last. The people here move freely, gathering in markets and taverns as though the world beyond their hills remains unchanged. I said nothing of where I had come from. What good would it do to place such fear into their hearts? Still, as I continued on my way, I found myself hoping the sickness would never reach them, that the wind might forget these places entirely.
After many days of travel, the scent of salt began to ride the air. Soon the land opened wide to a harbor alive with noise and motion. Ropes creaked overhead, gulls circled and cried, and the tide slapped against the wooden piers while sailors hauled crates and barrels between the ships.
It felt like stepping into another life.
The sailors say the sea has a way of carrying men far from who they once were. I find comfort in that thought. Perhaps distance will loosen the grip of the world I left behind.
I have taken passage aboard a vessel bound for several distant ports. The captain spoke their names as we walked the docks, though most meant little to me, places far beyond any map I have ever known. He says we will stop where the winds allow and trade where the waters are kind. Somewhere along that journey I will make my leave and begin whatever life waits for me there. The captain, a broad man with a patient voice, seemed amused by my uncertainty but offered me a place among the crew. For the first time in many months, the road ahead is not measured in graves but in open water.
I dream now of beginning again somewhere far from the shadow of that town. A small place, perhaps. A house with a warm fire. A life where the past becomes a story instead of a wound. These thoughts feel almost foolish, yet I cling to them the way a drowning man clings to driftwood.
This evening the crew prepared the ship to depart. Sails were unfurled, provisions loaded, and barrels rolled below deck. The men moved with the quiet confidence of those who trust the sea more than the land.
When the tide turns, we leave.
I stood at the railing tonight and watched the horizon swallow the last of the sun. The ocean stretched outward like an unwritten page, vast and waiting.
And for the first time in many weeks, the world ahead feels larger than the one behind me.
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