The Way There

The plan was simple: to go somewhere and sit there for a while.
Alone.
Quietly.

Yens had packed a pear, a soft orange blanket, a book he might not read, and a small yellow thermos with coffee, which seemed like enough for a proper outing. He checked the wind, hummed a little tune to himself, and rolled his bicycle gently down the path.

But halfway through the peaceful woods, he felt the slightest shifting in his bag.

A soft sigh.
A familiar squeak.
Spinny.

He had snuck in somewhere between the pear and the blanket and now blinked up, looking entirely unrepentant.

Yens sighed—not unhappily.

The forest path curled like ribbon, dappled with sunlight and tranquil sound of the woods. A squirrel scolded them from somewhere unseen, and a breeze smelled a little like mint. Yens hummed a song with no tune and no words, which was one of his favorites.

The road was not very fast, and neither were they. But it felt like exactly the right pace for a day like this.

Maybe they’d end up at the big flat rock by the river. Or maybe at the patch of moss that looked like a map of something important. Or maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t get there at all, and the way there would be the best part.