In the Fog

Fog hung over the lowland. The path was damp, the air cold. The chill crept into my boots. Everything was still. No wind, no birds—only a lone grey heron, its wide wings beating slowly over the meadow.

 

A bench stood beneath an oak tree. I felt the cold of the wet wood but didn’t sit. The fog pressed heavily, and I walked on.

In the woods, a spider’s web hung between bare branches. Fine droplets glistened on its threads. It looked fragile, but it held. The ground was soft and muddy. The air smelled of leaves and earth. Everything here had stopped becoming. It was simply there.

I came to an abandoned house. The roof had collapsed, a tree sprawled across it, as if it had taken back what belonged to it. The windows were hollow and black. Just a dark, quiet place that seemed to say: Something was here once. I stood for a moment, then moved on. There was nothing more to see.

The path led to a jetty. The lake was still, reflecting the sky, which was just as grey as everything else. I stopped and looked into the fog that swallowed everything.

I followed the trail. My steps slowed—not from fatigue, but because there was no need to hurry. I turned around once. The fog was getting thicker. The land lay still, cold, indifferent. It didn’t care about me, or the day, or the path I had taken.