The cracked dirt of the trail mixes with the leaves indistinguishably. The sound of the river echoes off the trees, but the constant noise of water ripping through rocks is merely an addition to the silence. Tall pines are interwoven above a long, narrow trail. The cold, crisp air sweeps across his face, blowing the sweat behind the hood of his deep black cloak. The trail seems to go on for miles with no destination in sight. Miles have already been trekked, but they seem negligible in comparison to the journey ahead. His boots are worn. The blackness of the cloak hides the layers of dirt from weeks before. In his right hand, he carries a staff as black as coal charred by war. On top of the staff lies the skull of a deer, surrounded by feathers and various crystals of different shapes, sizes, and colors, tied with black rope to the shaft.

  “Rrrrrrrr.”

  A word uttered. He has not spoken much since the start of his journey, but he has finally awakened.

  “Do you not respect the silence of the forest?”

  He reaches inside his cloak and pulls out a bag. The bag is a deep magenta, with a small sigil stitched into its side with deep golden-dyed thread. Within the bag are eleven purple beads made of amethyst. After finally reaching the elusive river, he bends down and places two beads into its current. As the beads float down the river, he whips off the hood of his cloak. Getting on his knees, he lays his head gently on an adjacent stone, watching the beads effortlessly float away.

  “Not far now.”

  He coughs after breathing in a small amount of dirt left on the stone.

  “Soon enough, I will be rid of you.”

  He lifts his head from the stone and slowly rises to his feet, brushing the dirt off the deep black cloth draped over his legs, and places the bag of beads safely back into its resting place in his cloak. He walks a few feet to the right, where a poorly constructed bridge desperately tries to continue its purpose of offering safe passage over the rushing water. One foot after the other, the bridge creaks and crackles, blending into the sounds of the water below. The sun is beginning to set. In the protective embrace of darkness, he walks ten more miles down the long and narrow trail.

  Abruptly, he stops and, in exhaustion, sits down exactly where he once stood. He crosses his legs, closes his eyes, and in what almost feels like an instant, he is awakened by the sound of the morning bird. Slowly opening his eyes, he is met by the piercing rays of the sun clawing their way through his eyelids. The cold morning air soothes his tired bones. He felt no solace in his rest that night. Like the feeble man he is, he slowly rises to his feet and, after taking a deep breath, continues walking.

  The trail begins to steepen. The dirt that once cushioned his weary heels gives way to a dense stone bed. Torturous, steep steps of stone siphon the serendipity from each breath. The incline is almost unbearable for him, but he must continue. He has traveled too far to turn back now. Morning dew coats the rocky staircase. He places his staff in the grooves between the stones before each step further up the ever-inclining trail. Ten more miles are walked. The trees are shorter now. No longer towering above his head, the small, gnarled pines offer no protection from the sun. A crow sits atop the largest pine—only large in comparison to the surrounding trees. He stops and stares at the crow for a moment, wishing it would come down from its perch and offer him some sort of solace. The crow flies away. He looks down at his worn sandals and slides his heel on the rocks. After raising his head, he adjusts his grip on his staff and continues walking. Ten more miles are walked.

  He has finally reached the zenith. The peak is all bedrock, with minimal greenery. The sun has not set, but it is dark. The silence is deeper than it ever once was. He kicks off his sandals and places his bare feet on the stone. Contrasting with the cold surrounding air, the stone beneath his feet is, to his surprise, quite warm. He frowns in confusion, since there is no sunlight heating the stone. He once again reaches for the beads in his cloak and pulls out the small magenta bag, opens it, and reaches his hand inside. Nothing. No beads. He wiggles his fingers inside the bag but is met only with the velvet texture of the small pouch.

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  “Curse this unholy land, and curse you!”

  He cries out in anguish.

  “No mercy for me.”

  A single tear falls down his cheek and makes its way down his neck. As it reaches his cloak, it hardens into a solid ball, falling down the leg of his pants and making a small tap when it hits the stone next to his feet. He looks down, widens his eyes, and quickly crouches to get a closer look at the drop of his tear. With his finger and thumb, he pinches the small amethyst bead his tear has transformed into. He rises to his feet, moving his hand closer to his eyes to get a better look at its details. When his eyes adjust, he notices a trail of amethyst beads floating in the air before him. Each of the purple beads glows in the darkness, lighting a trail in the void. Throwing his staff on the ground frantically, he runs across the bedrock, grabbing each bead from their point of suspension. He places each bead aggressively into the magenta bag almost as quickly as he grabs them. Ten more miles are walked.

  He finally reaches the end of the trail of glowing beads. His bag is already full, and his pockets are overflowing with purple light from the beads he couldn’t fit. The trail has led him to the center of the peak. A small pool of water lies before him. He looks up to the sky, confused.

  “Must I go in?”

  “I’m not ready.”

  You have always been ready. You know this.

  He falls to the ground and cannot get up. His heavy chest lies flat. He cries out in pain from his collapse.

  “Why can’t I move? Why are you doing this to me?”

  He reaches out and places his hand into the pool of water that he bows before. His eyes widen and his body shakes. He begins reaching into his pockets, grabbing the purple beads of light, desperately removing them from his cloak. The beads roll in every direction, almost unencumbered by the friction of the stone. They pick up momentum as they roll deeper into the void. After his pockets are emptied, he is finally able to reach into his innermost pocket and pull out the magenta bag. Pouring the last of the beads from the pouch, he is now able to move.

  Now you must go in.

  He rises to his feet and hesitantly removes his cloak. Dipping the toes of his right foot into the pool of water, he is surprised by the sensation of nothingness. The water is not hot, it is not cold—it is loving. After placing the entirety of his foot in the water, he takes another step in, followed by another, and another, and another, until his whole body is submerged up to his neck.

  “Is this what you wanted of me? Will you finally let me rest?”

  I never wanted anything of you. Only to tell your story. You are merely a lonely wanderer.

  “Did you know all that was going to happen?”

  Hard to say, really.

  “Well, if you had control, why did you put me through all that you put me through?”

  To tell a good story. I gave you a path to take and an environment to exist in. Was it really all that bad? Before you started the trek down the trail, I gifted you with a bountiful past…

  “Bountiful?”

  How can you forget? Right… because it was never written. How silly of me. I gave you a past. A good one at that. You were a child once, just like everyone else—just like me. Played outside like a normal child. Always curious. Always kind, even to the smallest of creatures. You had a loving family that provided the best they could—gave you love, as well as compassion. You grew up, and your environment expanded. In the winter months, you were lonely but always kept your mind busy. You would build castles of ice and feel as though you were on top of the world. You were always afraid of the stars because even at an early age you could hear me speak softly to you whispering your presence into reality. But I always saw you, and tried to wipe the tears of a child’s pain from your mind.

  “I remember now.”

  You traveled. You saw wonderful things, found and lost love, and met beautiful people who guided you and taught you the way to me. I never wished you any pain. Life tends to harden even the kindest of souls. Like the stone you walked on—though it may seem ugly at first, the more it hardens, the more beautiful it becomes, like a diamond. Similarly with the human soul: it must go through trials and tribulations to blossom into something new—something stronger than it was before. What is written is balanced. What is written is truth.

  “But what of the people I met?”

  Some of them had writers of their own. Others were merely written in. But every individual you interacted with served a purpose, whether you realize it or not.

  “What of the crow?”

  What of it?

  “Why did it leave me?”

  The crow was your companion but could never get close enough to tell you. You never let it in. Never trusted it enough. That is why the crow left you.

  “What of the beads?”

  The beads were what you held most dear—whether they were monetary gains, ideologies, or even the simplest of possessions.

  “So what now?”

  Time for you to write a story.