The Walk That Never Ends

Nobody knows what’s inside the crazy man’s head.

The crazy man wanders. Always wandering. From one village to the next, barefoot or wearing shoes too big or too small, talking to himself or to no one at all. He asks for food, a little water, maybe a cigarette. Sometimes, he hums a tune no one recognizes. Sometimes, he stares at the sky like he's waiting for it to speak.

He talks to children when they’re brave enough to come close. Not always in words they understand. Half-sentences, questions without answers, memories tangled like old string. Sometimes, he scares them. Other times, they laugh and run off, calling him names. But once in a while, one child will listen. One will feel something they don’t yet have the words for.

Then the crazy man moves on.

To another village. And another. And another.

Nobody knows how many places he’s been. Nobody knows where he started or where he thinks he’s going. Some say he’s been walking for months. Others say years. Some whisper that he’s not just a man but a ghost, too stubborn to rest.

Stories grow like moss on his name.

They say that once, long ago, he had a home. A warm house with a warm chimney and red flowers in the window box. He had a job that paid just enough. He had a wife who smiled with her whole face.

They say her name was Marta.

They say she was beautiful in the way quiet things are beautiful. Her laughter softened rooms. Her voice slowed storms.

Some say he was a soldier. That he went off to a war that wasn’t his choice. That he came back, but not really. That something inside him stayed behind, stuck in the mud, buried under ash.

Others say he came back whole in body but hollow in spirit. That he came back trying to remember who he’d been, and found only silence.

They say one day, without a word, he stood at the doorway of his home. Took off his shoes. Placed them carefully by the door.

And walked away.

Just started walking.

Didn’t pack a bag. Didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t look back.

Every village has a different version of the story. In one, he lost a child. In another, his mind cracked when he saw his best friend die. Some say he was cursed. Others say he’s been touched by God.

But there’s one version they don’t tell. The one buried deeper than the rest, waiting for someone to notice.

The story before the uniforms, before the fire and the screams, before the forgetting began.

The real story.

Before the war, before the leaving, before the long, unstoppable walk, he had Marta.

“Don’t forget me,” she told him once.

And he said he wouldn’t.

He swore it with his whole heart. “I’ll carry you with me always,” he promised.

But war doesn’t care about promises. War is a thief. It steals names and faces, memories and time. It grinds down the soul until all that’s left is survival. And survival leaves no room for remembrance.

In the chaos, he forgot where he was. Then he forgot where he’d been.

Then, worst of all, he started forgetting her.

Then he realized that her face started to blur in his mind. He started to panic. Not in a way others could see. It was quiet, like grief learning to walk.

So the next morning, he woke before dawn. Sat at the edge of his bed. Took a breath like it would be his last one at home.

Then he stood.

Took off his shoes.

Left them by the door like a marker, like a gravestone, like a prayer.

And walked away.

No one knows what he’s searching for. He doesn’t even know what he is looking for. Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s the version of himself that still remembers her. Or maybe he walks because if he stops, he’ll have to admit she’s gone from his memories.

Sometimes, he stops at the edge of a field, hands in his pockets, mumbling like he’s trying to piece together a melody he used to hum in the kitchen. Sometimes he sings it out loud, off-key, broken. Birds scatter. People turn away.

He mutters words he can't explain.

Sometimes he says, “I’m sorry,” even when no one’s around. Other times he says it over and over until it becomes a rhythm, a kind of walking prayer.

He forgets what he’s done.

But never stops apologizing.

Once, a little girl followed him past the edge of the village. Not far, just a few steps. “Mister,” she asked, “why are you crying?”

He blinked, surprised, like he hadn’t known he was. Like the tears had just appeared there, leaking from someplace too deep to reach.

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then said, “Because I promised.”

The girl didn’t understand. But she remembered.

Years later, when the crazy man came through again. Now that he is older, thinner, and his coat has more patches than fabric. The little girl, who is now not so little, saw him again. This time, she didn’t question anything. This time, she offered him bread without saying a word.

Others still call him mad. Still tell stories about the crazy man who never stops walking.

But a few, just a few, look at him with a different kind of understanding. The quiet ones. The ones who have lost someone, too. The ones who know grief not as a sharp stab but as a slow, heavy weight.

They see him and nod.

They know: there is no crazy man.

Only grief, wearing a man’s skin.

He walks still.

Village to village.

Season after season.

Year after year.

No destination.

No map.

Only a promise too heavy to set down, and a name he once knew but now forgets.

Some say grief speaks in tears. Some say it hides in silence.

But his grief speaks in footsteps.

And his language is walking.

He forgets just enough to keep living.

And remembers just enough to never stop saying sorry.