the truth is just a stack of squared tiles and a little bit of paint, like broken bicycle pedals at midnight with a destination seven miles away. she'd call it a mistake to travel without a set of extra wheels or tools or a bottle of water to leave your vehicle astray over another hungry passerby to stumble on by dawn and call it a miracle. she said walking had her easier without the bike because she knew that the grounds she'd pass were no more than twigs and stones and the rustling of leaves, and there were no extra wheels nor tools nor a bottle of water to leave when crossing didn't mean she couldn't make it beyond the roads that had to be abandoned, and no one else would've found her laid across an empty sidewalk. for years, they said, who would've ever knew that a reckless decision wasn't less than the forgotten trails of a traveler who couldn't tell which part to regret. for there were no guns to take to war, she said, so she parted in the least time she'd find a soldier awake. but little did she guess, and more she might've known, how a bicycle of whom she could've brought on her way home became a blessing to somebody else. 'i had the worst timing,' she whispered. 'and i can never do it right' for a traveler who's scared to face the day, will never make it by night. it's been years away, wretched and unstitched, would it matter even for a little if a fixed bicycle echoed not far came with the traveler holding gratitude she could no longer hear. 'i found her by a stack of squared tiles and a little bit of paint on where she laid,' he said. 'but i had the worst timing and i only found a broken bike.' and he insisted he wasn't courageous to have found her by then, because he believed it was too wrong for it to be called right. a lost traveler, whom he considered himself late, decided to mend things on his way home by day because he was too scared to travel by night. ©myrrhcthank you, @writersnetwork .