In the middle of a dilapidated road, there is a sign spiking out of cracking pavement. It says "Dead End", contrary to the potholed asphalt spanning out behind it. Huge old-growth trees seem to be the only thing that line it, no houses, no businesses, no farms, just trees. The branches extend in such manner, and the trunks are so close together that it's impossible to discern if there is a forest, or if the trees are a mere barrier, a thin line between the road and what's beyond.

The road clearly doesn't end there, so why is there a sign saying such? What lies beyond? What kind of road is this? A road simply cut apart from the rest because of wear and tear and a dearth of populace on the other side? But then, why here? It's been a good five or six mile walk since the last sign of civilization, and that itself was a broken down car circa 1960 at least. Or is it something else? A more...metaphysical type of road?

The breeze shifts. There is a sweet smell carried softly as a mother would her firstborn; it is of lilies, heather, and salty riverbanks. Birds are singing songs that don't have names or words beyond swiftly weaving ballads of their own beauty and where the food grows.

There is also a voice, half familiar, half forgotten, all grown up. It calls, trilling to the tune of the gushing banks and milkweeds. It drifts and falls, lilting deep, then joined in harmony with another voice. She and he, for it becomes apparent that it is a man and woman, make music in competition, each trying to sing louder or sweeter then the other. His voice breaks off as hers rises in victory. Small bells chime in anger, at the rate a head would shake, and she begins to sing in a mocking time with them.