The road we make.

The road between the guesthouse and the courtyard house is six hundred metres of tarmac with red earth on either side and one diamond sign at the halfway point that nobody has ever been able to read. On the morning of the wedding, at twelve minutes past eight, both families set out from either end of it at once.

Two gates, one road.

Vera leads Ines’s side out of the guesthouse gate with Rafael and Mireille behind her and Jun at the back, still not sure where to stand. At the far end, Lidia leads Tomas’s family out of the courtyard house, with Tomas carrying her folding chair. The arrangement was made by telephone a week ago, through Sana: start at twelve minutes past eight, and walk until you meet.

The sign with nothing on it.

They meet at the blank sign. Lidia arrives first, because she set the pace and nobody dared overtake her. For a moment the two groups stand a few metres apart, and nobody knows whose turn it is. Then Sana says the same short sentence twice, once in each language: now we walk together. Vera takes Lidia’s arm without asking, and Lidia lets her.

A morning wide enough.

Together they fill the road from edge to edge. A delivery van comes up behind them and waits at walking pace instead of sounding its horn, and Oren waves it a thank-you over his shoulder. Nobody hurries. Breakfast is laid in the courtyard house, and the bride is still on a train somewhere, which everyone agrees is the right way round.

Nobody photographed the meeting. The road appears here without them, as it looks before anyone sets out: one line, two ends, and room in the middle for everyone.

Editorial note: A work of editorial fiction; people, places and makers are illustrative.