The road stretched endlessly before them, winding through the open plains like a scar carved into the earth. The wind carried dust across the horizon, whispering through the brittle grass, tugging at their cloaks. The world felt wide and hollow, the silence between each gust filled only by the rhythm of their steps. The sky above stretched vast and pale, its color fading into the haze of distant heat.
They stopped often, not for rest but for people. An old farmer whose cart wheel had splintered on the rocky path. A mother whose child burned with fever. A group of wanderers too weak to draw water from the dried well.
Ruth worked silently beside the old man, offering hands instead of words. They gave what little they had — food, water, a shoulder to lift, a voice to comfort. And when violence found its way — a drunken scuffle, a thief cornered, a man striking another in rage — they turned away.
Not out of cowardice, but choice.
Still, regret lingered like a shadow. Ruth felt it in the tightening of his chest, in the quiet moments before sleep when he thought of the ones they left behind. The old man saw it too, but said nothing. He only watched the stars each night, eyes reflecting the firelight, as if searching for something long gone.
One evening, they found a small village by a river's bend. The people there were wary but kind — faces lined by years of struggle, voices low but genuine. The old man helped mend a broken bridge plank, while Ruth taught the village children how to balance sticks like swords, their laughter breaking the heavy silence.
When they left at dawn, the villagers gathered to see them off. A child tugged Ruth's sleeve and handed him a small wooden charm. "For protection," the boy said softly.
Ruth looked down at it — rough, uneven, carved by small hands. He tied it around his wrist and bowed slightly. "Thank you."
As they walked away, the old man glanced back at the village fading behind them. "Kindness is rare," he said quietly. "Treasure it, but never expect it."
Ruth didn't answer. The wind brushed through his hair, carrying the scent of the river and smoke. Somewhere deep inside, he felt the weight of the world pressing against his heart — gentle, but unrelenting.
And still, they walked.
Night fell again. The woods around them breathed with quiet life — crickets whispering in the dark, wind brushing through the leaves. They had made camp on a high cliff overlooking the forest. From there, the world looked endless — a sea of black trees swaying beneath the faint shimmer of the moon.
A small fire crackled between them. Sparks rose and vanished into the air, glowing briefly before dying like fading dreams. Ruth sat cross-legged near the flames, eating the fish they had caught earlier in the stream below. His movements were quiet, focused, almost reverent — the kind of hunger born not from greed, but exhaustion.
The old man sat opposite him, motionless. The light flickered against his face, tracing the deep lines carved by time and memory. He wasn't looking at the fire, nor at Ruth — his eyes were fixed on the sky.
Ruth glanced up from his meal. "You're not eating?"
No answer.
The silence stretched, broken only by the soft hiss of the firewood and the faraway call of a nightbird.
Then, after a long pause, the old man spoke — his voice low, almost swallowed by the night.
"Love…" he said, the word lingering like smoke. "Love is the most dangerous thing in the world…when the world is cruel enough to feed it."
Ruth stopped chewing. The tone wasn't like his usual calm instruction. It carried something else — sorrow, maybe fear. The fire crackled, throwing faint shadows across the man's weathered face.
"Love is inevitable," he continued, eyes still lifted toward the stars. "It finds everyone sooner or later. But in its extent…" He paused. "It can kill all the souls of the world — with enough rage."
Ruth stared at him quietly. The old man's expression was unreadable — steady, yet somewhere deep behind his eyes, something trembled.
The boy swallowed. "Why do you say that?"
The old man didn't look at him. His hand rested near the fire, fingers twitching slightly — as if remembering something that still burned. "Because I've seen it," he whispered. "And because I've lived it."
The words fell heavy between them. The night seemed to draw closer, as though even the forest leaned in to listen.
He finally turned his head slightly, the firelight reflecting in his eyes — weary, distant, and unbearably human. "So, Ruth," he said softly. "Do not falter in that trap."
Ruth lowered his gaze, unsure what to say. His throat felt dry, though the night air was cool. The crackle of the fire filled the silence again, steady and alive.
The old man leaned back slightly, looking up once more at the starlit sky. For a brief moment, his eyes seemed to drift far away — beyond the stars themselves.
A faint flicker crossed his face. Regret. Loss. And something deeper still — love turned into grief.
In that moment, Ruth saw him differently. Not as a master or protector, but as a man burdened by a past that refused to fade.
But he said nothing.
The night deepened. The flames grew smaller. The wind whispered through the trees below the cliff, carrying with it the scent of earth and fading smoke.
Ruth finished the last of the fish quietly. When he looked up again, the old man was still watching the sky — unmoving, as if carved into the night itself.
He didn't know what memory his teacher saw in those stars, nor what pain lived in those few quiet words. But something inside him shifted — a faint, wordless understanding that this journey was not just his.
There was something the old man carried… and one day, he would have to face it.
The fire flickered one last time before collapsing into glowing embers. The wind rose, scattering ashes into the night — like ghosts set free.