The sign, appropriately, alerted that the road ended there. The Whisper gently prodded, “What road?” I turned to the left towards a pond. Squishy soft quicksand like mud sure to forever claim another shoe from my foot. There a feather lay glistening in the setting sun. I touched my heart in gratitude for the gentleness after a most ungentle week. The Whisper again prodded, “What road?” I looked further and saw another feather. Carefully I made my way atop the quicksand mud. Another Whisper. Another feather retrieved from the mud. Nineteen feathers and so many sweet tears later, I found my way back to the road.

And the final whisper, “Yes little one, some roads do come to an end. They end there but there ending does not apply ‘here.'”