They gave me a map with every border drawn. Every river named. Every turn already decided. But there was one road the ink refused to touch. I wore borrowed constellations like they belonged to me, followed north because everyone said north was home. Then one night the compass went silent. And for the first time I heard the wind. The unwritten road doesn’t ask for proof. It appears beneath the foot that finally dares to move. Behind me, a house full of windows facing the wrong sky. Ahead, no signs. No names. Only distance opening like a door. Maybe being lost is only what they call it when you leave the map they understand. Maybe the horizon was never far away. Maybe it was waiting for me to stop asking which way I was allowed to go. So let the old roads keep their footprints. Let the stars forget my name. I am walking toward a place that does not exist yet. No map. No witness. Only the road appearing as I become. © 2026 Lunarbaby All Rights Reserved
