I am growing older. As my family and I trudge across the sloping sands, the awareness comes to me. Steps take greater effort, even though I swear I ran free only a moment ago. I let go of my pack straps and stifle a gasp at the sight of my hands. The veins are pronounced, deep blue rivers eroding thinning skin.

Time has drawn wrinkles on the faces of my brother and sister. A glance at my mother is just as shocking. She shuffles, hunched over, and the skin around her eyes is like crumpled paper. How did I not notice before? Yet, she doesn’t appear tired. She holds her chin up, gaze set on the path ahead, unaware of how age claims her body.

“Take this one,” my father says. “A good time to collect.” He breathes in the sweet air of this moment we walk past.

Distracted, I nearly forget the golden thread suspended between us. I miss the segment my father wants me to cut and carry forward. The idea of turning back for it crosses my mind, but I’ve been warned to never do that.

Thankfully, my brother, walking behind me, reaches the spot and plucks off the strand. He slides down a dune of fine crystals to hand it to me. He bounces with the energy of the child he was in the beginning.

I smile at him before stowing the strand in my pack. Another piece to weave into the thread later. Something to fill in the gaps. My father likes adding these moments to the unknown waiting ahead.

Ignoring my odd feeling, I face forward. We all follow my father as he leads us through time.

#

My father called it the end of the line. When my siblings and I were scarcely old enough to walk, he shared his belief with us. According to him, there must be a point where Father Time gave up spinning his thread. A place where that point could be reached. My father believed we could track it, and he would take control and continue spinning. We would go on forever.

When we set off on the journey, we knew we wouldn’t return home. “Don’t say goodbye,” my father said. “It’s in the past.” I was too fascinated by the golden thread materializing before us to feel sorrow, or to look back at all.

The thread represented a path that must be followed exactly, through each twist and turn. Sometimes it led us in circles or zigzags, but my father trusted it. We trusted him. My siblings and I laughed and frolicked back then, untouchable.

#

Sometimes gaps in the thread are too wide for my father to see where the path continues. It happens more often lately. To keep walking, we have to make the unknown known.

Time freezes when we stop to make camp in a forest. I sort through my pack, and my father and I weave together the strands I’ve collected. One or two usually do the trick to illuminate the path, but this time it takes a dozen.

My father hides a grimace from me. He works quickly to bleach the strands of their memories. I frown as well. Usually, he stops to appreciate them for longer. But he’s been on edge, excitable. We must be close. He doesn’t comment on my aging; I doubt he notices.

When I pull out the last strand, it snags on the edge of my pack. Holding on for dear life. I run my hand across its silky texture. It plants seeds of fuzzy memories in my mind. I strain to reach what it’s showing me, but then my father grabs it and ties it into the thread. With the gap filled, the pathway lights up.

My father sighs. “Stand in the back when we go on,” he tells me. “Cut everything behind you. Little bits will do.”

We can’t take longer stretches from the thread at once, or else everything will get tangled. Seeing the uncertainty on my face, he adds, “It’s what we’ve always done. We aren’t going back, anyway.”

I’m not sure how to feel. Essentially, I’d be erasing the past. But my father knows what reaching our goal requires. We take from what’s no longer important. Or, at least, less important than our family’s future.

We set off again the next day, and I stand in the back of the group as my father instructed. I break away strand after strand from the thread. I keep collecting until my pack weighs me down. Finally, I dare to look behind me, telling myself it’s fine as long as I don’t move backward. Behind us, the gap stretches out, infinitely vast. A shiver runs through me. We’re truly on our own now.

My sister nudges my arm, and I hurry to keep pace. But I can’t help watching her face, more lined, and my own hands, more veiny than they were yesterday.

#

I strayed from the course once. My father doesn’t care to bring it up. “It’s in the past,” he’d likely say. But each time I touch the thread, the memory returns.

The thread had led us through a town’s festival. Decorations adorned every building. Melodic hymns filled the fresh air of the marketplace. A vendor tossed an apple to me, free of charge. I lingered with the townspeople, singing along despite being unable to hold onto the words. I dipped my toes into the town’s pool of time. My father hoisted me out.

“We’re destined for a higher purpose,” he said. His expression was hard, and I sensed the tension buzzing under his skin. “We’re devoted to the future alone, and will go farther than the rest. Their bones will be dust by the time we’re done.”

He had broken off a strand from the village’s thread. Everything I had just seen flickered in my mind. It often happened that way. Those detours and distractions would drift away like paper underwater; from the surface they appeared to shine like pearls, but were frail when I tried to grasp them.

#

My steps grow heavier. My mother’s hair goes gray. The gaps in the thread are so wide that they need weeks’, months’ worth of strands to fill. My father assures us he’ll know when he finds our destination.

The colors of the world weaken and blur into each other. I risk another glance behind me, but the view looks no different than the path ahead. A bleached, vacant shell. The place where Father Time gave up.

It strikes me that my father doesn’t age like the rest of us. His hair, the shade of redwood bark, is still thick and full. No trenches, ravines, or canyons surround his eyes and mouth. My eyes were locked on his strides, and maybe that was why I believed we were all immortal. But we’re not. We fade the same as any other human. Though we move swiftly through time, we can’t escape it. All that waits is…

Nothingness. The word rings in my ears. Finally, I have no choice but to repeat it aloud.

My mother and siblings stop at my voice. They look to me, confused, and then their eyes widen at the emptiness. My mother stumbles, caught off guard by her stooped back and wobbling knees. I help her sit down to rest.

My father rushes to her side. There’s a question in his eyes when he meets mine, but it’s one he already knows the answer to. Despite chasing his dream for so long, we won’t reach the end. I put a wrinkled hand on his shoulder and pull off my pack. Thousands of strands spill out. My father starts to speak, but I stop him.

“We still have the present,” I say.

After a pause, he nods, grateful. He separates the strands and we begin weaving. My brother and sister kneel beside us to help. My mother, once she regains her strengths, joins as well.

We weave a tapestry instead of a straight path for the future. It will last a shorter amount of time, but will be richer and more vivid, full of meaning for whoever lives in it. My father doesn’t bleach memories from it. Instead, he lets the past be a guide. He allows it to be important. I catch a glimpse of that village we once passed, its vibrant festival taking root within time once again.

When we’re done, my father asks us to stay behind. Across many miles and years, he stretches the tapestry out. Then he returns to us, breaking his vow to never turn around.

“Did you find it?” my mother asks. “The end of the line?”

When my father smiles, the corners of his mouth crinkles. His hair has lost its dawn-red hue and is now thin and white. “It’s in the future. And this is now.”

Our family huddles together in the time we’re granted. Perhaps others will tell our story when we’re nothing more than dust. My father shares his own stories, tracing back to when Father Time first started spinning his thread. We keep our eyes fixed on him as he leads us into the past.