He had chased the city for most of his life.
It began with a rumor, tucked in the margins of an old book: a golden city, untouched by time, hidden beyond the last bend of the river. He was young then, and the idea took hold like a fever. Over the years, he followed maps that led nowhere, voices that faded into trees, and trails that vanished in the rain. But still, he pressed on, certain that one day the city would rise before him.
One morning, long into his journey, he stumbled into a small village tucked between the hills. It wasn’t on any map. The houses were crooked and bright, the air rich with cooking smoke and laughter. Children watched him from behind baskets. An old man handed him a bowl of stew and said nothing.
He stayed one night. Then another. Then another still.
Days passed with no destination, only rhythm: water drawn from wells, stories shared by firelight, a slow weaving of quiet joys. He found himself talking less about the city. He even stopped looking at the map.
Then, one evening, a woman in the village pointed to the distant ridge and said, “Your city lies just beyond that crest.” He followed her gaze. The jungle shimmered gold in the low sun. He knew at once where it was on the map, what he had been searching for all this time.
But he didn’t climb the ridge. Instead, he stayed and helped mend the roof of a neighbor’s house. He stayed and watched the stars above. He stayed and listened to the music from his new friends.
As time went on, the map in his pocket wore thin, until one day there was nothing left.