Running Girl

Edna ran.

She ran with the reckless certainty of a child who had never learned to fear falling, her bare feet flashing through tall grass that parted gladly for her. The field was endless and green, stitched with wildflowers and humming insects. The sun sat low and kind in the sky, warming her shoulders, urging her onward. She laughed as she ran, a clear, bell-like sound that had not lived in her throat for decades.

She was little again.
She knew she was little again.

The vegetation brushed against her knees, her lungs burned in that wonderful, alive way, and the world felt new enough to last forever. There was no past here, no future—only motion and breath and the thrilling possibility of play. She chased nothing at all, simply running because she could.

But in the other world—the one growing quieter by the hour—Edna’s wheelchair stood still beside the bed. Her body slumped slightly to one side, thinner now, lighter somehow, as if gravity itself were loosening its claim. Her chest rose shallowly. A nurse adjusted her blanket, unaware that the woman before her was already elsewhere.

Back in the field, Edna slowed and spun in a circle, arms outstretched, dizzy with joy. The sky seemed impossibly large. She thought she heard her mother calling—softly at first, then clearer—telling her supper was nearly ready. The sound wrapped around her like a promise.

She turned toward the voice.

In the chair, Edna’s fingers twitched, then stilled. Her breathing grew uneven, pauses stretching longer between each fragile rise of her chest. The room dimmed as evening settled in, shadows pooling along the walls.

The child in the field felt no fear. She felt only belonging.

She ran again, faster now, toward the far edge of the meadow where the light gathered thick and golden, where figures waited just beyond clarity. She could almost make out their faces—familiar, beloved, impossibly close.

In the quiet room, a long breath left Edna’s body and did not return. The city beyond the window continued on, indifferent, rain tracing its final patterns down the glass.

And in the field, the little girl never stopped running.

She disappeared into the light, whole and unburdened, leaving behind the wheelchair, the aches, the shattered memories—leaving behind everything except the joy of being, at last, completely free.