They moved toward the faint straight line, and as they got closer, the shape became more obvious. It really was a path—narrow, simple, and pressed gently into the ground as if many small steps had once walked across it.
Fate stopped at the edge of it. "This doesn't look natural."
"No," the Dreamer said. "The meadow didn't make this by accident."
The path wasn't made of stones or dirt. It was just grass that had grown shorter and smoother, forming a line that continued far ahead. It didn't curve like the rest of the landscape. It went straight, almost perfectly so.
Fate stepped onto it. The ground felt firmer here, like it had been pressed down for a long time.
"It feels like someone used to walk this a lot," Fate said.
The Dreamer joined them on the path. "Or something did."
They followed the line, walking side by side. The path stayed steady—no breaks, no bends, no fading. It simply led forward, as if waiting for them.
