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."
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. A Mother of No Destination
Elora looked at the horizon, where the sky and sea were indistinguishable. "Arrival is an ending," she said. "But love is a continuous road. I stayed a mother to the restless, and in doing so, I was never alone." Elora stopped, her weathered face softening into a smile