illphated
The sun was just beginning to rise when Eleanor tightened the saddle cinch on her mare, Juniper. The mist clung to the earth like a memory, drifting between tall pines and the wild underbrush of this uncharted land. She had left the last trace of the old colonies behind two weeks ago, following no trail but instinct, no guide but the pull in her chest that whispered: Keep going. It’s out there.
Juniper moved with confidence, her hooves muffled by moss and damp soil. Eleanor rode tall, her rifle slung across her back, eyes sharp beneath the wide brim of her hat. Every rustle in the trees, every break in the canopy, she read like signs in a language she was just beginning to learn.
The land here was raw—untouched by axe or plow. Deer moved freely in the thickets. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead. Somewhere nearby, a brook giggled over smooth stones. It was wild, yes, but it was alive. She could feel it. This was no place for those who feared solitude. But Eleanor had long made peace with being alone.
She passed through a thicket of birch, their white trunks shimmering like ghostly sentinels. Then, the trees thinned. Juniper stepped forward into a wide, open clearing bathed in the warm glow of dawn.
Eleanor stopped, breath catching. Before her stretched a gentle valley, ringed by soft hills and crowned with distant mountains. A creek cut through the center like a silver thread. Wildflowers swayed in the breeze. There were game trails, old and fresh. The soil, she could tell from the scent alone, was rich.
She dismounted and let Juniper graze, her own boots sinking slightly into the earth. This was it. This was home.
Not because anyone had told her so. Not because it matched a map or a plan or a promise. But because her heart, for the first time in years, was still.
Eleanor knelt, dug her fingers into the soil, and smiled.
Tomorrow, she would build. But today, she would rest. And listen. The land had welcomed her. The rest would follow.