path fog

The fog settles and all falls silent, hushed, reluctant to disturb the tendrils of mist. She softens her step, aware of the swollen quiet, unwilling to end it. There is the odd noise but never an echo, never resonance, never the expectation of an answer. The odd chirp, snap of a twig, rustle of a leaf, gurgle of a stream - they linger disembodied in the air, adding to the quiet and never breaking it.

She cannot remember how she got here. The fireplace and friends around it, the warm house and bustling kitchen are all obscured by the fog and the memory of their laughter silenced by it. It may have been minutes ago or hours.

Looking behind, from whence she came, she seeks a glow in the haze, the hint of a lit window or of a building.

Something.

But there is just the path, lined with hedgreow, and the odd shadow of a branch hinting at the trees obscured by the opaque vapour.