Four travelers and a fork in the road.

In a town where the streets meandered like thoughts before sleep, lived four people who had never met. But one day, fate brought them together—at a fork in the road where all roads ended and new ones had yet to begin. Archie, who didn't know which way to go.

Archie was young—twenty-three—but he looked like he'd lived a hundred. Not from grief, not from misfortune, but from a lack of something. He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know where to go. The world offered him a thousand paths: become a programmer, become an entrepreneur, become a blogger, become anyone. You could be anyone, which meant—nobody.

Every morning he woke up and thought, “Why?” Not philosophically, but literally—why get up, why get dressed, why do something if it’s still unclear where it’s leading.

One day, he left the house and walked aimlessly, aimlessly. He walked and walked until he reached a fork in the road. There stood three other people, as lost as he was. Dante, who built the wrong life.

Dante was forty-one. A beautiful name, a beautiful life—on paper. A good job, a loving wife, two children, an apartment in the center. Everything was right. Everything was as it should be. Everything was according to plan.

But one day he woke up and realized: this wasn't his plan. It was the plan of his parents, society, and expectations. He'd built his life like a house, according to the blueprints they'd given him. And now he lives in this house and feels like an outsider.

“I don’t know who I am,” he said out loud to the empty room. “I know who I’m supposed to be. But who am I really?”

And he set out to find an answer. He walked for a long time, through days and nights, through doubts and anxiety, until he reached a fork in the road. Three people stood there—a young man with empty eyes, and two women, each with her own burden. Aliya, who had everything but meaning.

Aliya had achieved everything she dreamed of. Her career was brilliant. She had the money. She had the respect of her colleagues, the admiration of her acquaintances, the envy of her friends. She was the one people pointed to and said, "Now that's an example of a successful woman."

But inside, she felt a void as big as the sky. She'd wake up in a beautiful bedroom, look in the mirror at her beautiful face, and think, "What next?"

There was nothing further. Because everything she was working toward had already happened. But what do you do when the finish line is crossed, but the road isn't over?

She got into the car and drove off. She didn't know where she was going, she just drove. She arrived at a fork in the road where three people were already standing—a young man, a middle-aged man, and another woman, who was looking into the distance, as if waiting for a ship. Assol, who was waiting for a miracle.

Assol—that's what they'd called her since childhood, because she always looked to the horizon, as if waiting for scarlet sails. She was thirty-eight, and all her life she'd believed: something would happen. Something would change everything. Love would come, a calling would come, meaning would come. You just had to wait.

She waited. Waited in boring work, alone, on quiet evenings by the window. Waited while others lived. Waited while time passed.

But one day she realized: miracles won't happen. Scarlet sails won't appear on the horizon. If she wants something to happen, she needs to go for it herself. Not wait for a ship, but become it.

She stood up, got dressed, and set off. She walked for a long time, through fear and doubt, until she reached a fork in the road. Three people were already standing there, each facing their own direction. A fork where the roads end.

The fork in the road was strange. On one side was a signpost, but they had all been worn away by time. On the other was a stone on which someone had long ago carved the words: "If you go lef