“Alright, Wanderer,” she said to the purple valley. “Let’s see who lives down there.”
She emerged on a high, wind-scoured plateau she had never seen. Below, a silver river threaded through a valley of purple grass, and on the far hills, lights flickered that were not stars. A civilization no map had ever recorded. The air smelled of rain and strange honey. Wanderer
She closed her eyes and listened. Not to the illusion, but to herself. The Wanderer’s heart didn’t beat for safety. It didn’t beat for the past. It beat for the next horizon , even the painful ones. “Alright, Wanderer,” she said to the purple valley
Then she walked past the birdbath, through the apple tree—which dissolved into light—and out the other side of the arch. and on the far hills