She found the map on a
Tuesday, folded into
quarters small enough to
hide under a stack of
receipts no one had
sorted in months.
The lines were familiar
in the way old songs are
familiar — she could not
remember learning them,
but her hands knew where
every crease meant.
She did not unfold it.
Some maps are not for
the trip you have not
taken yet.
She put it back, closed
the drawer, and let the
afternoon finish without
her.