It was the day I gave up that I found the old woman at the crossroads.

I gave her the last of my coin, she gave me a tarnished pendant strung on a piece of old leather and sent me south. When I reached the mountains, there was a young woman waiting outside a cave to guide me through the maze of caverns and into the myth that all wanderers seek, the Traveling City.

There were tents, wagons, and crude cabins huddled around fires, animals and people clustered together. Mostly there was laughter and music.

I stayed for two years, learning how to shoe a horse and read a palm, among other things, sometimes I even predicted true. I laughed and loved and sang and worked, met newcomers and waved farewell to those who needed to move on.

On the night I realized I was happy, there was a feast. Everyone brought out their stash of the good stuff and we met the sunrise singing.

When I woke the Traveling City was gone.

I gathered my things and left the clearing, smiling, the old pendant resting warm against my skin.