By Francesc Borrull · August 12, 2024

Every morning, just before the first hint of dawn kissed the horizon, Eli Thorn would lace up his old running shoes, each frayed thread a testament to the miles they’d carried him. For seven years straight, without fail, he’d stepped out into the pre-dawn chill, when the world was still cloaked in night’s heavy silence. No matter the weather—rain, snow, blistering heat—Eli ran. It was his ritual, his therapy, his way of making sense of a life that often seemed too tangled to unravel.

As he pushed open the creaky front door of his modest home, Eli paused for a moment, taking in the familiar sight of the darkened street. The shadows of the oaks lined the road, their branches bare in the early spring air. The cool breeze whispered through the leaves, a gentle reminder that the world was still turning, still moving forward, just like him.

Eli started off at a slow jog, his muscles stiff from sleep but quickly warming to the rhythm they knew so well. He breathed in deeply, the crisp air filling his lungs, and with each exhale, he felt a little lighter, a little more free. This was his time. Out here, in the quiet of the morning, before the world awoke and demanded things of him, he was just Eli. Not a husband, not a father, not an employee—just a man, putting one foot in front of the other.

His mind began its familiar dance, sifting through the thoughts that had been lying in wait, like eager children ready to play. He thought about his wife, Mary, still asleep in their bed. She’d grown used to his early morning ritual, barely stirring when he slipped out of bed each day. There was a time, years ago, when she’d questioned it, worried he was running away from something. But now, she understood. Running was Eli’s way of running towards something—peace, clarity, maybe even himself.

Eli’s thoughts drifted to his children, grown now, with lives of their own. He wondered if they knew how proud he was of them, how much he admired the people they’d become. He’d never been good with words, never one for grand speeches or heart-to-hearts. But out here, in the stillness, he could imagine the conversations he’d have with them, the wisdom he’d impart, the love he’d express. In these early hours, he could be the father he wanted to be, even if those words never made it past his lips.

The road stretched out before him, a dark ribbon winding through the sleepy town. Eli’s legs moved with a steady rhythm, his feet striking the pavement in a comforting cadence. He knew this route by heart, every crack in the sidewalk, every dip and rise. It was a map of his thoughts, a trail that had seen him through countless worries and decisions.

As he approached the old bridge over the creek, his mind turned to his job. The mill had been his livelihood for over thirty years, a place where he’d worked his way up from a green, eager kid to a seasoned foreman. But now, the mill was struggling, the machines older and creakier with each passing day, much like the men who operated them. The rumors of layoffs hung in the air like a dark cloud, and Eli couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do if the mill closed its doors for good. What would a man like him do without the mill? It was all he’d ever known, all he’d ever been. The thought of it being taken away was like standing on the edge of a cliff, peering into an uncertain void.

He shook his head, trying to clear the worry from his mind. That was the beauty of running—it didn’t allow you to dwell for too long. The rhythm of his steps, the pounding of his heart, it all demanded focus, pulling him back from the brink of anxiety. Eli knew he’d find a way, just as he always had. Life was full of twists and turns, but as long as he kept moving, he’d find his path.

The first hint of light began to creep into the sky, a faint blush of pink on the horizon. Eli felt a surge of energy, a quickening of his pace. This was his favorite part of the run, when the darkness began to give way, and the promise of a new day was just within reach. The rising sun was a silent companion, a reminder that no matter how dark the night, the dawn would always come.

Eli’s thoughts wandered to the future, to the dreams he still harbored deep inside. They were simple dreams, really. He dreamed of taking Mary on a long trip, just the two of them, to see places they’d only read about in books. He dreamed of spending more time with his grandchildren, teaching them to fish, to play baseball, to run like their grandpa. And maybe, just maybe, he dreamed of opening a small shop, something quiet and peaceful, where he could spend his days in the company of good people and good coffee.

These were the thoughts that carried him through the last stretch of his run, as the sky continued to brighten. By the time he turned onto his street, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting long, golden rays across the town. Eli slowed to a walk, his breathing heavy but even, his body tired but satisfied. He stood at the edge of his driveway, watching the sun climb higher into the sky, painting the world in shades of gold and pink.

For a moment, Eli just stood there, soaking it all in. This was why he ran. Not just for the exercise, not just to clear his mind, but for this—the quiet moment when the darkness faded and the light returned. It was a reminder that life, no matter how heavy, no matter how tangled, was always moving forward. The sun would always rise, and with it came the promise of a new day, a new chance to keep going, to keep running.

Eli took one last deep breath and then headed back inside, the warmth of the morning sun on his back. Mary would be waking up soon, and the day would begin in earnest. There would be breakfast to make, work to be done, and all the small, ordinary tasks that made up a life. But no matter what the day held, Eli knew he’d be ready for it. Because he’d already faced the darkness, and he’d already found his way back to the light. And tomorrow, just like every other day for the last seven years, he’d be out there again, running towards the sunrise, running towards himself.

© Francesc Borrull, 2024