He reached the edge of the continent. The ocean was gray and silent. There was nowhere left to walk.
He projected a map of his journey onto the sand. 247 years of walking. A tangled web of lines across the wasteland.
The Pilgrim tilted his head. He adjusted the contrast. He looked at the negative space between the lines.
It wasn't random. The path spelled a word, written in cursive across a thousand miles of ash.
W A I T✾
He turned back to the east. The word was finished. Now he had to write the next one.