The Traveler's Pack
A story about journeys
The traveler had been walking for so long she’d forgotten why she started. Her pack grew heavier with each mile—not from what she carried, but from what she refused to leave behind.
At the first village, someone had given her a stone. “For protection,” they said. She placed it in her pack.
At the second village, someone gave her a mirror. “So you don’t forget yourself,” they said. Into the pack it went.
At the third village, someone gave her a key to a door that no longer existed. “You might need this someday,” they said. She kept it.
By the tenth village, her pack was so heavy she could barely stand. She sat by the roadside and opened it.
The stone had never protected her from anything. The mirror showed only someone tired and bent. The key opened nothing. There were dozens of other gifts too—a dried flower, a broken watch, a map to somewhere she’d never go.
She began taking things out, one by one, and leaving them by the side of the road. Not carelessly, but intentionally. Thank you, she whispered to each one. But I don’t need you anymore.
When she finished, only three things remained: a water bottle, a blanket, and a small notebook where she’d been writing her thoughts.
She stood up. Her pack felt almost weightless.
As she walked, she passed another traveler coming from the opposite direction, bent under the weight of their own collection. The traveler looked at her nearly empty pack with confusion.
“Aren’t you afraid?” they asked. “What if you need those things?”
She smiled. “I was afraid. That’s why I kept them so long.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m just walking. The fear feels lighter too.”
The other traveler thought about this for a moment, then continued on.
She watched them disappear down the road, then turned and kept walking herself. The evening air was cool. Her shoulders no longer ached.
And though she still didn’t know where the road led, she found she didn’t mind not knowing.