The tread from her wellies left prints on the pavers that disappeared into the mist after a few steps. As if the mist was erasing the evidence of her passing along its path. She found it bothered her. That her journey could be so easily erased and thus forgotten. The path cut through the low brush, overgrown and brown in patches that made it appear forgotten and forlorn. Delicately woeful landscape where the mist blurred the color palette like a somber watercolor. The stone pavers disrupted the effect, a stark line fading off into the distant tree line leading to a quaint cottage barely visible against the white of the morning fog. She strode on, noting the way the countryside was attempting to retake the ground occupied by the pavers, growing in between them in tufted lines. Eventually, without tending, the countryside would succeed, reclaiming what was initially and would always be its. That was the way of nature. To slowly, patiently reclaim what mankind had the audacity to claim as its own.