She took a step toward the garden. The air felt real. The smell was perfect. Her mother held out a hand.
She knew it was a trick. She’d read stories of fae portals, mind-fever cacti, the Siren’s Gullet. This was a test. The Wanderer in her screamed to turn around, to find the real path, the authentic hardship. But another part—a part she’d buried under miles and sunburns—whispered: What if it’s not? Wanderer
“Well,” she said, her voice strange to her own ears after days of silence. “That’s new.” She took a step toward the garden
She closed her eyes and listened. Not to the illusion, but to herself. The Wanderer’s heart didn’t beat for safety. It didn’t beat for the past. It beat for the next horizon , even the painful ones. Her mother held out a hand
She finished her water, stood up, and tightened her pack straps.
She opened her eyes, smiled gently at her mother’s ghost, and said, “I’m not home.”
She pressed her palm to the cool surface. It gave way like water, and she stumbled through.
