It is 4:57 in the morning.
The cyclist leaves the house.
He has been doing it for years.
Sun, wind, rain, cold, or snow.
He can no longer remember when he started.
He only remembers that one day he climbed onto his bicycle before dawn and, ever since, he has almost never stopped.
The village is still asleep.
The windows are dark.
The streets are empty.
Only the sound of tyres on the tarmac accompanies the first minutes of the day.
He pedals without hurry.
He knows every bend, every tree, every pothole.
He could ride this road with his eyes closed.
Perhaps that is why he notices the sign immediately.
It wasn’t there the day before.
It stands at the side of the road, just beyond the bridge.
White, simple, hand-painted.
A single arrow.
And a single word.
“Elsewhere.”
The cyclist slows down.
He stops.
He looks at the road he rides every morning.
Then he looks at the path indicated by the arrow.
He has never seen it before.
And yet he has the strange feeling that it has always been there.
Perhaps the path was new.
Perhaps the sign had appeared during the night.
Or perhaps Elsewhere had been there all along.
Riccardo 