The Lost

Driving down a dark road, you feel weariness set in you. Where you were, and where you are going, is not of particular consequence. Your eyes begin to droop, but there is no place to stop. The fog rolls in thick, thicker, denser, until you can see nothing but what is right in front of you: suddenly appeared, a crossroads.

You don't remember a crossroads here.

Right is said to take you on your predetermined path, to continue as normal, along more destitute and lonely road until you find your journey's end. The left, however, is unmarked. There is no given destination, no conclusive end point, and only the promising shine of distant lights breaking through the fog and clearing away the obscurity.

At last, the clock strikes the Witching Hour, and you make your decision.