The Road That Keeps Going

The old woman behind the vegetable stall didn’t smile much, but she wasn’t unfriendly either. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from years of the same questions with no good answers.

I’d stopped to buy some bread and whatever greens looked least wilted. Loaf was sniffing around the edge of the stall like he was considering whether turnips were worth the trouble.

“You’re not from around here,” she said, wrapping up a small bundle of carrots without being asked.

“Passing through,” I answered. “Headed south eventually.”

She nodded like she’d heard that a hundred times. “Most people are. Or they were, before things got loud again.”

I handed her a couple of coppers. She took them, but didn’t move to give me the change right away.

“My boy went north last spring,” she said after a moment. “Said there was work up in the hills. Good pay, steady. Never came back.”

I waited. Sometimes people just need to say it out loud.

“Heard he joined up with one of those groups. The ones that move in the dark. Don’t know which. Don’t much care anymore.” She finally handed me the carrots. “Just want to know if he’s still breathing.”

Loaf wandered over and gave her stall a long, thoughtful sniff. She reached down and scratched behind his ear without thinking about it.

“You see a young man with a scar across the back of his left hand,” she said, not looking at me, “tell him his mother’s still got the good axe he left behind. And that the roof leaks worse every winter.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just nodded.

“I will,” I told her. “If I see him.”

She gave a small, tired smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Safe travels, stranger. And keep that boar out of the turnips.”

Loaf grunted like he understood the insult. I gave her an extra copper for the carrots and walked on. The road south was still there, but it felt a little longer than it had that morning.