Grass, sky, and the sound of the birds, chirping as they fly freely in a group. Under them, a young man walked. He walked and walked, sipping from a small water bottle every ten or so steps. His lips became drier and drier with each step he took. At that unfortunate point, the sound of his jacket as he moved forward was the only thing he could hear. It was the final stretch. Weeks, months, years, it was all about to pay off. And so - Thud. He dropped to the ground and sad, having reached a cave. A smile brighter than the sun itself, but enough energy to be proud of it. The man had reached the end of his long journey, spanning six whole years. Finally, he sighed in relief.

Sitting there for no less than two minutes, he shook the feeling of ‘’Is this a dream?’’ and got a grip. He reached inside his backpack, taking out a small sketchbook, a photo and a notebook. His fingers shaking, he leaned over, his lips gently connecting with the picture of an old woman. I did it, he thought.’’I made it’’, he kept muttering.

He crossed his legs in a relaxed manner, placing the photo on his left knee, glancing over to it every few instants, smiling. The notebook looked scruffy. Even the man hadn’t realised how worn out it was and the sheer number of pages he had filled out with endless words and details. Flipping through, he even saw his tiny, pointless notes. Things akin to ‘’How many pens have I wasted already? Haha.’’ Dirty gloves on his hands, he rubbed his eyes and flipped to the last free page in his large, one hundred-page notebook.

He pulled out a pen, his last one. No town, no inn, no shops. Not for hundreds of kilometres away. It was truly the last. ‘’Ahh…’’ He chuckled idiotically. The ink was barely visible. He scratched his head and looked around. There was no way for him to use his blood, for one, since his skin was too dry and it would be dangerous in the current circumstances. There was nothing around him that could leave a trace on paper. I guess this is why it’s called ‘’The Final Point.’’ No water, mud or anything around, he thought, growing ever-more anxious.

No choice, then. He looked inside the backpack’s middle pocket, finding a small knife. It was a very thin, precise knife, comparable to a grown man’s pinkie finger, but it could cut skin like paper. He took it out of its sheath and turned around, facing the solid cave’s wall. And so, he started chipping away at the sturdy rock.

The moon crept up on the young man, as he had finally finished. ‘’It’s good enough’’, he said to himself. ‘’Oh,’’ he exclaimed. He hadn’t noticed it himself, but the knife he had been using for more than a few hours had become less than half its original size. ‘’Not like I need it. Sorry, gramps. But hey, your knife made it to The Final Point. Cool, isn’t it?’’ It’s said that people talk to themselves when they reach an unbearable level of isolation. It was true. He threw away the knife with all his strength, watching it land on the grass. 

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‘’Well, it’s about time. It’s a little sad I couldn’t write it in the notebook though. I’m sure you would’ve been happy to see it, happier than even me or gramps,’’ he said as he looked at the photo gently resting on his leg. ‘’But you know, I thought it’d be scarier. Way more...endearing, right?’’ Of course, nobody replied. But the man smiled as he stood up, the photo practically stuck between his fingers. ‘’I’ll let you see it, okay? I’m probably gonna get my socks blown off though. I wonder how cool it’s gonna look! Right?’’

He turned around, his back facing the entrance to the quiet cave, taking a step towards the moon. And so, he looked upwards, happy as the subtle wind swayed his hair. ‘’I’m procrastinating. Sorry. Let’s go.’’ He turned around and began walking forward towards the cave’s entrance.

At that moment, as his leg crossed the line separating the open fields and the dim cave, he reminisced. At first, as a young adolescent boy, he had passed through magical forests. He had helped a small walking teardrop find its own leaf house. He had walked past a village filled to the brim with walking, talk junk food packagings. He once had a conversation with a notebook, recording his previous endeavours and leaving it in a library. Once, he had the opportunity to talk with the ruler of the world, a large ball of hair named Can. He had made many acquaintances, who patted him on the back and sent him on his way with a smile.

Echo. He stepped inside the cave. ‘’Woooow! It’s true. The echoing sounds like the cheering of everyone who’s got you so far! Woaaah!’’ He was ecstatic. He had never experienced having this much dopamine flowing through his head before. It was, in no uncertain terms, the most exciting moment a person, an explorer, could dream for; the feeling of uncovering something never before seen.

With no further gaping, the man continued walking forward, in a straight line. The walls  of the cave seemed to shrink more and more as he went along, until - ‘’A door… A door!’’ It was a small, modest wooden door, sitting at the end of a short tunnel inside a cave no one had ever gone in before. It was beyond intriguing. 

He shook with excitement as he placed his hand on the primitive doorknob that looked as old as you could think and twisted it. He opened the door.

In a single, short flash, his eyes widened. His legs began shaking, to the point where he couldn’t handle it and sat down. And… ‘’Heh…’’ He rubbed his left hand on his face, slapping himself once or twice. Before this young man, the first man in contemporary society to get to this point was something that even he himself couldn’t put into words at first, simply out of shock and the realisation that he was beyond exhausted. However, ultimately, the only thing this man, this explore,r was able to say was -

‘’I found the most boring thing in the world, but at the same time something I had never seen up to that point.

Unfortunately, there was no one with him. No one to share the anticlimactic feeling of this life-long quest. No one except for the photo he refused to let go of. That tiny photo gripped tightly in the man’s hand, was the only witness of what he had found and of the text he left on the wall. The only witness to the monumental achievement of a message on that wall…

‘’Greggory Bloke, 19 years old. I got here first. I was the first man to come to the end of the world.’’