Immediately from the moment Tay saw the frayed end of string at her bedside, she knew she had to follow it. It intrigued her. She walked beside it out of her room and down the hallway and out the front door. She didn’t have any idea who had left it or why it was there. All she knew was that there was something important at its end.

The string went down the same street she walked every day and it ended at the corner where she waited for the bus that took her to college. When the bus pulled up and opened its doors, the string continued onto it, and Tay followed it to an empty seat. The bus stopped at her school and the string lead her inside the building and to her class.

Many years later, she was used to seeing the string everywhere. It always seemed to be where she was going, always ended where she waited, always went on when she had to move next. At times she wouldn’t notice it for days, but it was there. She followed it to the end of college, to her first day of work, to where she met her husband. The string was there when her kids were born, when they graduated college, when she was diagnosed with cancer. She lived a long time after her illness, ignoring everyone’s urgent suggestions for chemotherapy and instead following the string elsewhere.

Nobody but Tay ever saw the string, and she never told anyone about it. It was her secret.