There was a row of small green arrows on the path and, near to the first of them, a small ball of paper, which I picked up and smoothed out, somehow knowing that I must treat it with care and respect. Written on the paper, in a crabbed hand, were the words Follow the trail. I was on my way home, my children were waiting for their supper and my feet were hurting. All reasons not to follow a trail of small green arrows pointing in the opposite direction to home. I followed the arrows. Everything has changed now, the old man has passed on and I am the one who writes on the paper which I scrunch up into balls and leave by the trails of small green arrows for the next ones to follow, as they will.
Cath Barton lives in Wales. She particularly enjoys writing very short fiction and hopes that she is not predictable.