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It was getting darker. The crickets' chorus rose more and more frequent. Autumn gold flooded in, gilding everything with a Midas touch. His hand met the granite bank, as he drew deeper into the grove of trees, down a pathway curiously bare of footprints, yet looked as if frequented not too long ago. Had many taken this journey? Even if they had trod before him in step, this still felt new, the way things do as a child explores his backyard and finds a new corner seemingly untouched from the rest of the world.

His eyes twitched as they adjusted to the unfamiliarity. For a split second everything seemed to tilt. Immediately everything became fresh and new. He recognized he was breathing manually. He could smell algae on the side of the juxtaposed bank. He could hear the soft rippling of the river.

And as he fell deeper into the fever of it all, he forgot why he was there. He forgot his life. He forgot his fear. He forgot his loves. He forgot time. From discovery, he had forged freedom.