The pot of boiling water shook on the brick stove. I was about to place the fresh deer meat my father had hunted from the forest when I heard the heavy galloping of horses. I removed the firewood and watched the flames die down, leaving behind blackened remnants of charred wood.

The deer was big—bigger than me. I thought it could last us a week. My father was the best hunter in our tribe. I would always admire his spear as he sharpened it on a whetstone in preparation for another day’s hunt. He never came home empty-handed. Sometimes rabbits, wild boars, or birds. There would always be excess, and we would trade these hunts for grains or cloth.

I slowly peeked through the window. I could see men garbed in brightly colored clothing. I was in awe—another group of travelers staying the night at my family’s inn. Their carabaos pulled carts brimming with vegetables. I heard my mother rush to the door to greet the unexpected visitors.

As I served them supper, I overheard one of the men speaking to his companions.
“It’s quite amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. The farmers were carrying loads of rocks up the mountain. You should see what they were building—terraces upon terraces of fields, rising as if they reached the sky. I bet hundreds of sacks of grain could grow on them.”
He stood up and gestured wildly as he spoke.

“There’s more,” he added. “I saw coffins hanging atop high rocks. It was fascinating—how did they bring them up there?”

I leaned in, eager to hear more, but then I saw my father staring at me. I dropped my gaze and left.

I’ve always wondered what lies beyond our home. I’ve heard stories—of houses made of stone, of mountains that smoke at the top, of water that turns to salt under the sun, of pearls so large that merchants fight over them, and of tiny lands surrounded by water. I’ve heard so many tales. It must be exhilarating to go from one place to another—as if there’s no home. As if there’s no need to be home.

My father wouldn’t approve. I know he wouldn’t. He would often say, “Live, marry, die in the place you were born. No place is better than home.”
But I am not my father.

I know there are places out there worth seeing. The fields and forests of my home are not enough to satisfy this longing. I want to see those places for myself. With my own eyes.

---

Up, down. Up, down. Left, right.
The cart jolted over so many rocks, my body ached from the force. I had no choice but to reveal myself. I pulled off the cloth I had used to cover myself and was momentarily blinded by the bright light. When my eyes adjusted, I saw it—
The new place, right in front of me.