The Way Through

The day casts long shadows into Chicken's path as she trudges through the town's narrow streets, her satchel weighed down by rejection letters. Each neatly folded paper testifies to a world unready for her words. As she leaves the newspaper office with yet another polite "Sorry, not for us," she feels the weight of her unappreciated creativity press against her.

The fog thickens with her disappointment, swallowing the road ahead. Each rustle of the rejected poems in her bag echoes the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot, a relentless reminder of her trampled dreams.

As Chicken wanders through the shadowy woods, the fog wraps around her like a cold embrace.

Suddenly, something soft yet firm catches her foot, sending her tumbling forward. With a startled yelp, she flips over and lands squarely on her bottom. The satchel flies open, scattering the crisp, crumpled letters like leaves in a gust of wind. She scrambles to gather them, her movements frantic and fumbling in the thick fog.

As she reaches for the last fluttering paper, she turns abruptly, coming face-to-face with a small, trembling figure. In a moment of surprise and confusion, they both scream—"Ahhh!"—the sound echoing strangely in the fog-shrouded forest.

Chicken quickly regains her composure and stammers, "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

Before her, curled into a tight ball on the damp forest floor, is a red fox. His fur is bristled with fear, and his eyes are wide with the terror of being lost. "I—I'm lost," he whispers, his voice quivering. "I can't find my way."

Recovering from the initial shock, Chicken looks at the trembling figure before her and offers a reassuring smile. "That's okay, I'm lost too," she says softly, extending a comforting wing. "What's your name?"

"I'm Finnick," the fox replies, his voice steadying as he uncurls from his defensive posture. He looks up through his big glasses at Chicken with curiosity and relief. "And you?" he asks.

"I'm Chicken," she responds with a slight chuckle, feeling the irony of her name in such a bewildering situation. "Well, Finnick, we're both a bit lost today." She glances around, the dense fog making the woods around them seem endless and a bit daunting.

Turning back to Finnick with a reassuring smile, she adds, "I'm on my way home, if you'd like to join me. We could have coffee and wait for this fog to disperse."

Finnick listens, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and gratitude. After a moment, he slowly stands up, the shaking gradually subsiding. "That sounds amazing, thank you so much," he says, his voice steadier now.

As they prepare to leave, Chicken points into the fog. "I think it's this way," she says, uncertain but hopeful.

Finnick nods and falls into step beside her. Together, they navigate the obscured path, their shared journey through the fog beginning to feel less daunting with the prospect of warm coffee and companionship awaiting them.

As they walk side by side through the mist, their steps quiet on the damp earth, Chicken glances over at Finnick. "Where are you from?" she asks.

"Éze," he replies. "It's a small town not far from here."

Chicken nods. "What made you want to come all this way?"

Finnick's ears perk up slightly as he explains, "I'm a reader—I've finished all the poetry in my town's library. A while ago, I heard about a poet who lives here, someone who hangs their work outside for anyone to read. I've always wanted to see it for myself." His voice carries a quiet excitement as if the thought alone is enough to brighten the thick fog surrounding them.

Chicken stares ahead, stunned into silence, but she keeps walking.

After a moment, Finnick sighs, glancing around at the endless gray. "But I don't even know if I'm going the right way."

Chicken finally speaks, her voice softer now. "I'm sure you are."

He looks at her curiously. "Do you know them? The poet?"

A small smile plays on her beak. "I do."

Before he can ask more, the fog begins to thin. Shapes emerge from the mist, and a cozy little house comes into view in the distance. Strung between wooden posts, fluttering gently in the morning breeze, are dozens of papers—poems swaying like whispers in the open air.

Finnick gasps. "There it is!"

He takes off in a flash of red fur, his excitement breaking through the last of his uncertainty. He rushes to the poems, eyes darting over the words as he eagerly reads.

Chicken lingers behind, watching him. She turns back momentarily, glancing at the path they just traveled—thick with fog, winding, uncertain. And yet, they had made it through.

Turning back to Finnick, she watches him read silently, a quiet smile settling onto her face.

The fog still lingers in the woods, but in this small clearing, the words remain clear, and her satchel suddenly feels less heavy. 

Poem for this Episode 

The Way Through

Fog like paper, torn and thin, Footsteps swallowed, lost within. Pages drift in restless flight, Words unwritten, veiled in white.

The road is quiet, doubt runs deep, Rejections pile, a weight to keep. But step by step, though all seems still, The path unfolds, it always will.

Not all is seen, not all is clear, Yet move ahead, push past the fear. For through the dark, the dim, the blue, The words will find their way to you.

CKN