The path had been walked for generations.

The ground knew it. Packed hard in the middle, soft at the edges.

One year, someone hesitated at the entrance. The grass had grown a little. Not enough to get lost. Enough to make you think twice.

They went another way.

Two hesitated the next year. Then no one came back.

The grass didn’t need to fight for it. It won slowly. Not by force. By repeated absence.

One evening someone came looking for the crossing. Asked around.

No one remembered a path being there.

They looked at the grass. Tall, even, untouched. As if it had always been that way.

Moral:
What stops being walked
disappears.
You don’t have to destroy it.
Not going back is enough.

What stayed with you? After Reading →