There once was a pilgrim who had walked so many roads that he began to wonder where they all came from. Surely, he thought, there must be a place where every road begins. A source. A first step. A zone where the secret of all journeys is kept.
And one evening, after the last hill, he found it.
A wide crossroads. A wooden signpost bristling with arrows. A grey waystone, carved with a scallop shell.
Arrows in every direction.
Paths fanning into the dark.
A zone, it seemed. A beginning.
The pilgrim smiled. If every road starts here, he thought, then whatever every pilgrim is searching for must start here too.
He read the arrows. They were blank.
He asked the waystone which way was the right one. The stone kept its shell to itself.
On top of the stone, quite out of place, a small black box blinked blue. Patiently. Politely. Meaning nothing in particular.
He waited for the zone to reveal its center. But a crossroads has no center. Only the spot where you happen to be standing.
And slowly, the pilgrim understood.
Not every beginning is a destination.
Not every zone has a heart.
Not every arrow wants to be followed.
This is no sanctuary. No archive of journeys. No map of all maps.
It is a crossroads.
Nothing more.
So, Traveler —
There is no treasure here.
No first step to steal.
No secret at the center of the zone.
Pick any road but this one.
Go home, pilgrim.
And the crossroads, at last, was empty again.