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She didn’t carry a child in her arms, but rather a heavy, cedar-lined trunk strapped to a small wooden cart. Every morning, as the fog rolled off the Atlantic, Elora would begin her walk. She didn’t head toward the market or the docks; she simply walked until the sun dipped below the horizon, often ending up in a different thicket or cliffside than the day before.
Elora stopped, her weathered face softening into a smile. "I am not going to a place," she said, her voice like dry leaves. "I am tending to the journey itself." A Mother of No Destination
"A mother looks after her own," she whispered. "But who looks after those who belong nowhere? I carry them with me. As long as I am moving, they are still traveling. As long as I have no destination, they are never 'lost'—they are simply on their way." She didn’t carry a child in her arms,
The village children, curious and bold, once cornered her near the Whispering Pines. "Where are you going, Elora?" they chirped. "The road to the north leads to the city, and the road to the south leads to the salt mines. You’re just walking into the woods." Elora stopped, her weathered face softening into a smile
For forty years, Elora walked. She became a living ghost of the coastline, a rhythmic presence that the villagers eventually used to time their own lives. When she finally grew too old to pull the cart, she sat on a bench overlooking the sea.
Elora was a woman defined by the miles she had traveled, though she had never once looked at a map. In the seaside village of Oakhaven, they called her the "Mother of No Destination."