He walked with silence stitched into his coat, A threadbare map folded in grief, Boots soaked in yesterday’s rain, Eyes dimmed by storms no one could see. The road was not paved—it pulsed. Thorns grew from the cracks, And every mile whispered doubt: “You are lost. You are broken. You are alone.” He passed through the Valley of Mirrors, Where reflections screamed his name In voices not his own— Each one a memory sharpened to wound. At the edge of the Forest of Panic, The trees leaned in too close. Their branches clutched like fingers, And the air was thick with “what ifs.” He ran. Not toward hope, But away from the weight of staying still. In the Desert of Numb, Time forgot its shape. The sun burned without warmth, And even shadows refused to follow. But somewhere between the ache and the ash, He found a stone—smooth, small, Etched with a word: “Still.” He held it like a heartbeat. He built a fire from fragments: A kind word once spoken, A song half-remembered, The echo of someone saying, “You matter.” And when the night came again— As it always does— He did not run. He sat. He breathed. He stayed. The road still pulses. The thorns still whisper. But now, he walks with a lantern Lit by every step he survived.