The night air was thick with silence, broken only by the sound of Anne’s footsteps against the damp earth. Each step felt like a rebellion, each breath an act of defiance. For eighteen years, she had lived under the rigid laws of her family’s faith, where tradition was unquestionable and obedience demanded. They had their ways, their unshakable beliefs, their certainty that the world outside was corrupt. But Anne had glimpsed something different—something freer.
It began with books—ones she borrowed in secret, their pages whispering of worlds beyond her own. A tattered novel she found buried in a donation box had been her first window into another life. She read it in stolen moments, under her blanket, letting the words pull her into a reality she could only dream of. And so, the idea of freedom took root—not as a reckless escape, but as an inevitability.
She planned for months, collecting scraps of money from odd jobs, memorising the back roads leading out of town. The moment came when her father, the church elder, knelt in prayer, his voice a murmuring tide that lulled the household into complacency. She slipped out the back door, a small bag slung over her shoulder, carrying nothing but a change of clothes, the battered novel, and the hope that the world outside was kinder than she had been told.
The town disappeared behind her, swallowed by the darkness. The road stretched endlessly ahead, an open wound cutting through fields that smelled of damp earth and the last whispers of summer. Her heart pounded, half from fear, half from exhilaration. She had never been out this late. Never walked this far alone. Never existed beyond the confines of her family’s expectations. It was dizzying, yet exhilarating.
By dawn, she reached a layby along the main road. Lorries roared past, indifferent to the lone girl standing by the roadside. The enormity of her decision settled on her chest. She had no plan beyond escape. No one was waiting for her. The world she had been taught to fear now loomed vast and indifferent before her. But there was no turning back. Not now.
She walked for hours, her legs aching, her throat dry. A service station appeared ahead, its neon lights flickering against the grey morning. The air smelled of petrol and brewing coffee. She stepped inside, fingers grazing the shelves, marvelling at the endless choices—rows of crisps, bottled drinks, magazines she had never been allowed to read. Even something as simple as deciding what to buy felt overwhelming.
She took a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits to the counter, hesitating before handing over the money. The cashier barely glanced at her, muttering the total. The exchange felt significant—she had bought something for herself, by herself. A simple act, yet it severed the tie to her former life.
Stepping outside, she sat on the edge of the pavement, unscrewing the bottle cap with trembling hands. The morning was cool, a soft mist hanging in the distance. She watched cars come and go, people moving with purpose, each one knowing exactly where they were headed. That was freedom, wasn’t it? Not just leaving, but knowing where to go.
A man in a heavy coat filled his car with fuel. A woman loaded a sleepy child into the backseat. An elderly couple sipped tea from a thermos, their dog curled up between them. They all had destinations. They belonged somewhere.
Anne had never belonged anywhere.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the old novel, its spine cracked from years of secrecy. She turned its pages absently, tracing the faded words with her fingertips. The book had been her first escape, the first glimpse of something bigger. But now, in the real world, she found herself unmoored, unsteady. The idea of freedom had always seemed grand, intoxicating. But standing here, miles from home, she felt the crushing reality of it.
Freedom was not just flight. It was a choice. And choices carried their own burdens.
She thought of the characters she had read about—those who had known exactly what they wanted, who had run towards something, not just away. What did she want? Not safety. Not certainty. She wanted space to exist without fear. A chance to decide who she was without someone else’s voice telling her.
A bus pulled into the station, its brakes hissing as it came to a stop. Passengers disembarked, stretching stiff limbs, shaking off the weight of the journey. A sign on the front read its destination: a city she had never been to. She watched as people boarded, the driver barely looking up as they filed past. No one here knew her name. No one cared where she had come from.
The battered novel rested on her lap, its pages fluttering in the breeze. A story of someone who had dared to leave, who had found something worth running toward.
Anne stood, brushing dust from her jeans. She slung her bag over her shoulder, gripping the book tightly. She had always imagined freedom as a thing without weight, like the wind through an open window or a bird in flight. But standing here, she understood—wings were not light. They carried everything she had been, everything she hoped to become. And so, with quiet resolve, she stepped onto the bus, ready to bear their weight and soar.