He walks.
The waning moon provides just enough light for him to see. Shadows cast by trees cross his path, masking sharp stones and holes. He continues regardless. Only a small pack weighs his body, but his mind is burdened. He stumbles, corrects himself, and keeps walking.
He walks.
The sun casts little heat as it modestly shows itself above the horizon. His steps are slow and hesitant, yet he continues. A small cloud of dust is raised behind him for a moment, but then falls to the ground unheeded.
He walks.
The sun has passed far overhead and fallen, a reminder that all men must fall. Small blotches of red mar his trail. He steps now are staggered, uneven. A flagon, now empty, glints for the final time in the dying rays of the sun.
He walks.
The sun now below the horizon, moon not yet risen. Nothing can be seen beyond greys and blacks, all colour leached from the world. Each step is a lifetime, yet each step follows the last. His pack wears away at shoulders hunched and weary. Yet he continues.
He walks.
All burdens released, a lightness in his step. The moon shines high ahead, full and glowing with warmth that fills the air. Grass grows freely, cushioning every step. He is, finally, free.
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