Roads: Far From Home

She was waiting for me the next morning, sitting at my table with a bowl of hot porridge and a packed bag. A small bag, I thought. Either she was leaving it all behind, or there was little to leave behind anyway. I rather suspected the latter.

My pastry steamed in the cold morning chill, the flavours of bacon and cheese rolling together in my mouth as we walked. She looked cold in her cloak, but she refused to take my spare. Even when I insisted.

Although we were far along, the road was still in good condition. This stretch was even paved, with large stones laid in well-packed earth. We kept to one side and managed to string together a nice conversation - though in low tones.

Her name was Claire, and she had come all the way from the plains. She had started off poorly, though, and her nerve had failed her at the tavern we just left. She assured me that this time she was better prepared.

I told her that she certainly appeared to be and pretended not to see her tears.