One late summer afternoon, when the fields of sun-kissed grass danced and the sun had begun to disperse into brilliant streaks of orange and pink, a little girl stumbled upon the worn, crumbling path, leading into a never-ending golden meadow. Her skirt was frayed and exhaustion filled her but through the blazing sunlight, she continued on without a whimper.

In the center of the field, there was a cottage where a farmer and his wife lived. From the murky windows where she poured herself a steaming cup of honeyed tea, the farmer’s wife caught sight of a small speck coming closer and closer down the path. She eyed the isolated thickets in the distance. Across the fields of tall straws, a barren road snaked into the horizon. The span was vast, and seemed as if the farmer and his wife were the only ones in the field.

As the speck grew closer, the silhouette became small shape, casting long, empty shadows. From the grass, emerged a girl- a child. She had barely reached the clearing at the front of the cottage when the woman could see a flash of green eyes staring up at her and the flush of a dirty skirt when the small outline of her tumbled onto the ground.

In a start, the wife flew out the creaky doors and down the peeling porch steps towards the girl who lay still, blending in with the dull ground, dust on her face. Rays of golden light pressed against her, illuminating her silvery hair and revealing the patched clothing she wore.

The wife ran towards her and pulled her from the ground. She pressed her against her chest, trying to feel her breath, trying to make sure she was alright. In the horizon, everything became still: the dancing wheat fields, the rustling breeze, the rhythmic chirping of crickets.

The wife could finally feel the girl’s tiny heart beating in her delicate body as she cradled her in her arms. She held her closer and spoke softly into the girl in her arms: “where have you come from?”  But there was no answer.