The path had always been there—worn stone steps swallowed by moss, reaching toward the crest of the hill like a forgotten promise. Elara stood at the base, hand grazing the weathered wooden signpost, its words long faded by wind and time.

“They say you find what you’ve lost at the top,” the old woman had whispered in the village square.

Elara climbed, her breath syncing with the hush of the breeze. Each step tugged memories from the past—her brother’s laughter, her mother’s lullabies, the silence that followed their disappearance.

At the summit, the world opened wide. No grand revelation awaited, just the sun breaking through the clouds and a breeze that smelled like childhood summers.

She didn’t cry. She smiled.

The path hadn’t led her to what she lost.

It reminded her she could still feel.

That was enough.

She turned.

And walked back down whole.

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This piece was written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers