I have been walking down this beach for as long as I can remember. The sky is purple and so is the water. I’ve felt alone for a while, but for years I could see two sets of footprints whenever I glanced behind. I must have glanced behind a thousand times–just to make sure they’re still there.

But this time is different.

I stop and the water tickles my feet, sending shivers all through my body. I didn’t realise I was so close to the sea. As I turn around, I watch the shimmering water wash over two trails of footprints stretching into the distance. I look on with tears in my eyes as the water recedes, leaving behind nothing but smooth, undisturbed sand.

Where have I been?

I turn again, and the beach stretches out as far as I can see. There’s nothing to do but walk. After a while, I can’t help looking behind, and I’m surprised to find only my own fresh footprints.

I’m crying as I walk on.

A silvery-white horse that used to be on a poster in my bedroom is standing in the water nearby. The horse tells me to stop looking behind–those footprints are gone. Now that I’m walking so close to the water, even the new ones I make will get washed away quickly.

“This is a good thing,” the horse says. “The footprints still exist—they just don’t exist in this moment of your experience. There’s no point looking for them. Look ahead instead. How beautiful is this beach? How salty is the air? How good does the wind feel in your hair? Do you sense yourself morphing a little higher or lower with each passing moment? Nothing is set in stone. You get to choose—over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.”

I thank the horse and carry on.

I’m not sure if it takes seconds or years, but somehow I go from being alone to brilliantly alone. This whole beach is mine. Maybe there’s a faint figure far, far, far, far off in the distance. But the beach is mine.

As I continue, I don’t think about if my footsteps are disappearing behind me. I don’t care.

The End/Beginning