The Path

His footsteps echoed on the mud path to nowhere. Moss clung to the felled, damp trees on either side of the road. Wooden signs were built onto metal posts, clanging noisily against each other in the unmerciful wind. The bitter wind whipped against his face, and a faint scream of pain was heard, screeching somewhere far off. The twigs pricked his bare feet, but he was determined to reach his destination, that even he did not know. He slowly opened the creaking wrought iron gate, and took a step in. No sooner had he stepped in had the door closed behind him with the wind. A thick fog now blanketed a deserted town, and the air seemed denser. And, although it could barely be heard, the sound of his footsteps echoed on the mud path, to nowhere.