People always asked her when she would settle down.

As if the world had only one acceptable destination.

As if the map was already drawn.

She never answered directly.

She would only smile—soft, knowing—and continue walking.

She walked through cities where no one knew her name.

Through forests where the wind tangled in her hair.

Through small towns where she stayed just long enough to learn the local bakery’s favorite gossip.

Some said she was avoiding something.

Some said she was afraid to choose.

Some said she was lost.

But they never saw how her eyes lit up when she found a new trail.

Or how her shoulders relaxed when the sky widened and the horizon stretched open for her.

They never heard the way her voice softened when she spoke to rivers.

Or how gently she treated every sunrise, as though each one was a story she had been waiting years to finish.

She collected moments the way others collect furniture:

Not to possess,

but to remember.

And in every place she passed through, she left something behind—

a laugh,

a kindness,

a brief conversation that someone would remember weeks later and wonder who she was.

No, she was not lost.

She simply chose not to stay still.

She believed the heart was like a compass—

not meant to point to one fixed place,

but to guide her toward whatever made her feel most alive.

And so she wandered.

Not searching for home—

but carrying it with her.