The Passerby

They say that years ago, a man was seen on this same road; a pack on his shoulder, without anyone knowing where he had come from or where he was going. He was in no hurry, and had no fear of solitude. He simply walked — slowly, silently, as though he had left something behind whose name he no longer wished to remember.

Others thought he was a traveller, but the truth was that rather than searching for a new place, he was looking for himself.

For years, in the crowd of living, he had played a part; the very part everyone expected of him. He had worked, he had endured, he had smiled, even while something inside him was slowly going out. Until one day he realised he could no longer hear his own voice.

And that day he left without saying goodbye — just as every living creature one day leaves without saying goodbye.

They say that every evening, when the light fell on the road for the last time, he would stop for a moment and look at the horizon, as though waiting for a sign. But perhaps that sign was never going to come from outside.

Perhaps this whole road existed only so that he might understand that some homes are not places at all; they are a state of peace a person has to build within themselves. And perhaps that is why the further he went, the slower his steps became, and the clearer his gaze.