He keeps looking back so he could find his way home by sight, but even he knew it wouldn’t be enough. His feet and heart won’t bring him back, so he forms a path in white, which would light up in the night and the moon.
Yet mornings were made to be broken, and when he’s forced to wander again, he forms a different path in crumbs.
Looking back tends to leave an aftertaste like a pillar of salt in the middle of the desert, and this time is no different. Except he’s the one who’s been left behind, and the path he made can’t stay on the ground.
There’s a power that can only be found by being lost, and can only be fully appreciated if one finds his way back and takes it all the way home. And as for which path is better, only those who’ve travelled on both can tell.