Turning the corner at a slow jog, he finally saw the exit, and sprinted forwards. It was a wooden door painted grey, but chipped, worn. He had been wandering the labyrinth for days, his throat parched and his lips cracked: exhausted. He had woken in what he presumed was the middle. An empty square of red earth, cracked and dry like him. He still didn’t know how he got there. But now he was getting out, he didn’t know what would happen to him on the other side. This was, he thought to himself, the way of all things.
Choices and dead ends, pathways and the unknown. It all seemed meaningless. But what is there to do, when stuck in a maze, but try to escape? One can only go on. He reached the door at the end of the path; he turned the handle with fingers that trembled.