The Footsteps of Another

The blood had long since dried on his clothing, and his breathing had returned to a normal pace, but he was tired. It was a weariness that did not contain itself to his physical shell. Indeed its very source was his heart ripped asunder, his will battered and bruised. The weight which had once sat upon his shoulders was gone, but a new weight now pressed from the inside out. He did not mind it so much… not as long as it meant the outer weight would not return. He knew that he could not bear that for another moment. He breathed deeply, silently reveling once again in his freedom. Yet he could not go on much longer without a rest. He looked to his surroundings. The darkness had become a murky twilight, but in the dimness he could see no hope of shelter or comfort: not a tree, a boulder, or even a small hillside. The land was flat, barren, and grey. Ahead of him loomed a great shadow, what he assumed must be the beginning of some great mountain range. It had been before him ever since the dim light had first penetrated the darkness into which he had ventured. Sighing, he sat down on the ground. It wasn’t long before he heard a sound off to his left. Allowing himself to feel surprised, he listened intently as the sound grew louder. After a moment, he recognized the sound as footsteps. Soon, the dark silhouette of a man appeared, walking slowly but steadily in his direction. As the figure passed in front of him a man’s features became momentarily discernable, revealing a dirtied face staring upward at the sky. The man began to say something, so desperate was he for the simple gift of conversation, but he quickly checked himself, realizing his foolishness. This other man was here, but that did not mean that he had been there. He had certainly not come across that same great chasm. There were many roads that led to this place. The other man was soon out of sight, and he was alone again for a very long time.