When the path ended, he lost all sense of direction.
Looking for a suggestion on where to move based on how clearly the dirt in front of him had been packed down, or swept away.
A way only reappeared when he stopped looking for a road to follow.
When he let go of the idea of a perfect trail.
When flowers and stones, and leaves, and air, and light were just as valid an indicator as a stomped out path, the way became endless.
Being able to change his idea of what the “right way” looked like, he was able to accept what laid out before him.
Sprawling fields of possibility with no end except the horizon.
No limit but where the sky bent down and kissed the ground.
And even that end felt like a blessing.