What was the meaning of walking? There was none.
Yet he kept walking. His feet moved, the ground slid backward. It needed no meaning. He walked for an entire day, until night fell.
Was he tired? No.
His legs were not sore, his feet did not hurt, but there was a strange feeling in his heart. It was neither fulfillment nor emptiness. It was simply "moving."
Moving was good. Moving meant he was still here.
He walked for three days and three nights.
At last, he reached that light. It was not a beam of light, but a gap, like a door left slightly ajar.
He did not know what lay beyond the door. Not knowing was exactly what he wanted.
He stood before the door, his hand still resting on the handle.
The handle was cold, made of iron, with a little rust on it. He pushed the door open and saw a hazy gray light.
It was neither sunlight nor lamplight, but a light whose source could not be explained.
He walked in, and the light engulfed him.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing on another street. It was not an unfamiliar street, but the one where he had lived as a child.
There was a convenience store by the roadside that sold spicy snack strips, a freezer selling cola, and an empty lot where several children were playing with mud.
This was not real. He knew that.
It was an image that had grown from his consciousness, a residue of his thousand years of memories.
But he did not turn around and leave.
He crouched down and watched those children.
They squatted on the ground, clutching wet mud in their hands, shaping it into little people, little dogs, and bowls. Their creations did