The Road That Returns
The past did not come loudly.
It did not tear open the sky or split the earth beneath Elian's feet. It arrived the way most dangerous things did—quietly, disguised as familiarity.
It was market day in Rellinford.
Stalls filled the square with color and noise. Fabric fluttered in the breeze. Spices burned sweet and sharp in the air. Children darted between adults like swallows, laughing, shouting, alive.
Elian stood near Hollis's stall, helping unload timber, when he felt it.
A sensation like standing at the edge of a forgotten path.
He straightened slowly.
Across the square, a man had stopped walking.
He wore a traveler's cloak, road-dust still clinging to the hem. His hair was iron-gray, his posture straight despite the pack on his shoulders. He looked utterly ordinary—except for his eyes.
They were too calm.
Too knowing.
The man's gaze locked onto Elian's.
The world seemed to narrow.
"Elian," the man said, speaking his name without raising his voice.
Hollis frowned. "You know him?"
Elian swallowed. "No."
But some part of him already knew that was a lie.
He crossed the square, each step heavier than the last.
"Who are you?" Elian asked.
The man smiled faintly. "Someone who has walked where you refused to stay."
Mara appeared at Elian's side, her hand brushing his wrist—a silent warning. "We don't know you," she said sharply.
"Of course you don't," the man replied. "Names are… fluid, where I come from."
Elian's heart beat faster. "You came from the roads."
The man inclined his head. "From what remains of them."
A chill passed through Elian.
"The Endroad collapsed," Elian said. "I chose—"
"—to leave," the man finished. "Yes. And because you did, the roads began to change."
Around them, the market noise continued, unaware.
Mara's voice was tight. "Say what you came to say."
The man studied Elian carefully. "The roads were never just tests. They were balances. Anchors. Without travelers willing to remain beyond the gate… some paths do not fade properly."
Elian felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes.
"You're saying they're still out there," he said.
"Fractured," the man replied. "Leaking into places they don't belong. Dreams. Regrets. Choices that refuse to settle."
Elian thought of his dream. The crumbling crossroads.
"Why tell me?" he asked.
The man's smile faded. "Because you remember them clearly. And because you walked away."
Mara stepped between them. "He's done. He chose a life."
"And that is precisely why he matters now," the man said calmly. "Only those who let go can recognize when something refuses to."
Silence stretched.
Elian felt the weight of it—not like the Road of Burdens, but sharper. More personal.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
"Nothing today," the man said. "I only came to make sure you still existed."
He turned to leave.
Elian's voice stopped him. "If the roads are breaking… what happens?"
The man paused at the edge of the square.
"People begin to mistake memory for destiny," he said. "They stop choosing. They wait for paths that will never appear."
He glanced back once more. "You taught the roads how to end. Now the world must learn how to live without them."
And then he was gone—lost among the crowd as if he had never been there.
That night, Elian could not sleep.
The town felt unchanged, yet fragile, like a glass set too close to the edge of a table.
Mara sat beside him on the bed. "You're thinking of leaving."
"I'm thinking of understanding," Elian said.
She exhaled slowly. "Those roads nearly took you from yourself."
"I know," he said. "But if pieces of them are bleeding into people's lives—if they're trapping others the way they almost trapped me—"
"You're not responsible for the whole world," she said firmly.
He met her eyes. "I'm responsible for the choices I don't ignore."
They sat in silence.
Finally, Mara spoke. "If you go… this time it won't be prophecy pulling you. It'll be need."
"That's worse," Elian said softly.
She smiled sadly. "Yes. Because you won't get signs. Or certainty. Or an ending written in advance."
Elian reached for the journal.
Its pages were no longer blank.
New words had appeared—not glowing, not carved by fate, but written unevenly, like a hand learning to write again.
Some roads end so others can begin.
Elian closed the book.
"I won't chase the roads," he said. "If I walk again, it'll be to help people choose their own way out."
Mara stood. "Then we walk together. Or not at all."
Outside, the road beyond Rellinford lay quiet beneath the stars.
For the first time, Elian understood:
The roads were not returning.
But their echoes were.
And someone would have to teach the world how to listen—
without obeying.