And one morning she has simply had enough of her life, its smallness and its hardness, and she lays down the skin she has worn like a mask for a decade and brings out from the attic the parts of herself she has almost forgotten, untouched for so long - heart marking time, eyes piercing shadows, mouth that conjures laughter like a spell - and she closes the door for the last time and looks out at the land rising up to the sky as though for the first time and the mountain shimmers and she smells rain on leaves, hears rain on leaves, tastes rain on tongue, and she shoulders her pack and doesn’t look backwards even for a moment and a bird calls like a memory and her scarf is cool against her skin and her rage at all the wasted years is hot in her cheeks and she lets it be, lets it breathe, doesn’t smother it, and she has only a little money in her pocket but she knows these woods, knew them as a child, knows them now after all and she sets her foot on the path and the mountain waits.
Sarah McPherson loves folk tales and myths and finding the weird in the everyday. Her flash fiction has been widely published, nominated for Best Small Fictions, longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50, and selected for Best Microfiction 2021. Find her on Bluesky as @summermoth.bsky.social or at https://theleadedwindow.blogspot.com/.
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