The Song of Endless Roads I. The Beginning The morning stirs with golden breath, A hush before the day is born. The earth awakens, soft and slow, Its heart still trembling from the dawn. I step into the waiting silence, Shoes damp with dew, lungs filled with sky. The road before me bends and whispers, “Walk on, child, don’t ask why.” For every path has secrets hidden, Carved in stone and sung by streams, And those who dare to keep on walking Find their footsteps leading into dreams. II. Voices of the Earth The fields are choirs of quiet wonder, Grass blades hum in emerald rows. The trees hold council in their stillness, Guardians of what the spirit knows. Birdsong bursts like sudden laughter, Rising clear where shadows fade. Each feathered voice a note of freedom, Each trill a hymn creation made. The wind becomes my patient teacher, Tracing stories along my skin. It speaks of journeys without ending, Of worlds that live both out and in. III. The Weight ...
The Library of Forgotten Roads
The storm had forced Arun off the highway.
His car sputtered and died just as he reached the edge of a small, nameless town. The rain lashed down in sheets, and the streets were deserted, shutters pulled tight against the weather. With no signal on his phone, Arun wandered through winding lanes, searching for shelter. That was when he saw it: a tall building with arched windows and a carved wooden sign that read:
The Library of Forgotten Roads.
Curiosity overrode caution. He pushed open the heavy door.
Inside the Library
Warm light spilled across rows of shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly. The air smelled of paper and rain-soaked earth. Unlike any library Arun had seen, the books here weren’t neatly categorized. Some were bound in leather, others in cloth, some in cracked wood. A ladder stretched upward, vanishing into shadows.
Behind a desk sat an elderly man with skin like parchment and spectacles that glowed faintly in the light. He looked up, smiled, and said, “Welcome, traveler. What road have you lost?”
Arun frowned. “I just need a phone, or maybe someone who can fix my car—”
The librarian shook his head. “No, no. This is not that kind of place. Everyone who arrives here has taken a road they regret—or left one they were meant to walk.”
Arun felt a chill. He had never told anyone, not even his closest friends, about the decision that haunted him: years ago, he had abandoned his dream of becoming an artist to work in his father’s business. Safe, practical, lifeless.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Arun muttered.
But the librarian only gestured toward the shelves. “The book you seek will call to you. Listen.”
The Book of Roads
Arun wandered among the shelves. His fingers brushed spines that whispered softly, as though breathing. One book shivered under his touch—a thick volume bound in deep blue leather. On the cover, etched in silver, was his own name: Arun Mehta.
He opened it.
Instead of words, moving images spilled across the pages. He saw himself at eighteen, standing before an art school, portfolio in hand. He saw himself hesitating, then walking away to catch a train back home. The next pages showed the life he had lived: the office cubicle, endless paperwork, tired evenings staring at blank canvases he never touched.
His chest tightened.
But then the book shifted, and new images bloomed: roads not taken. He saw himself at that art school, meeting other dreamers, painting until his hands ached, creating murals that made strangers stop and smile. He saw galleries filled with color, a life uncertain but full.
Tears blurred his vision.
The librarian’s voice floated from behind him: “Every road leaves an imprint. This library keeps them all.”
Arun turned, desperate. “Can I change it? Can I take the other road now?”
The Bargain
The librarian studied him. “Change comes with cost. Time is stubborn. To step onto the forgotten road, you must surrender something of equal weight.”
Arun’s heart raced. “What kind of cost?”
“Your memories of the life you lived,” the librarian replied. “Every face, every moment, every sorrow and comfort. You will wake tomorrow on the road you abandoned, but the people you knew here—your family, your friends—they will be gone from you.”
Arun staggered back. His parents, his younger sister, his colleagues—they weren’t everything, but they were his world. Could he lose them?
Yet the ache of years wasted clawed at him. The colors he never painted, the stories he never told—it felt like a second death to continue as he was.
The librarian’s gaze was patient. “Many choose to leave the book on the shelf. Some do not. The choice is yours.”
The Long Night
Arun sat for hours in the library’s quiet glow, torn between two lives.
He thought of his father, proud but distant, who would never understand why his son wanted to paint. He thought of his sister, who once begged him to draw her portrait—now framed on her bedroom wall. He thought of the gray cubicle, the numbness in his chest, the silent scream of wasted years.
And he thought of the images he had seen in the book: a wall painted with wild colors, children laughing beneath it, his own hands stained with the proof of creation.
Could he sacrifice memory for possibility?
At last, with trembling hands, Arun closed the book. He placed it back on the shelf.
The librarian nodded, as though expecting this. “Few are willing to pay the price. But remember: though you cannot rewrite the past, you can still paint the future.”
The Return
The storm had ended when Arun stepped outside. The town looked ordinary now, its buildings dull, its streets quiet. Behind him, the library door had vanished, replaced by a blank brick wall.
Arun returned to his car. It started on the first try.
As he drove away, the ache in his chest remained, but it was sharper now—alive, insistent. He didn’t need the library’s magic to begin again. He only needed courage.
The next day, he bought brushes and paints. He cleared the dust from his old easel. And though his hand shook as he drew the first line, something inside him sang.
The road he had left behind might be gone, but he was still walking forward.
Epilogue
Years later, in a crowded city, Arun unveiled a mural on the side of a school: a garden of color, children running beneath painted skies. As people stopped and smiled, he felt a strange whisper in the wind—like the rustle of turning pages.
Somewhere, in a library no one could find twice, a blue book with silver letters glowed softly, its pages filling with new images.
Arun had not changed the past. But he had changed the road ahead.
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