It’s funny how certain days start with absolutely no plan and still manage to stay in your memory for years. That Sunday was one of those days. I woke up later than I meant to, sunlight already pouring through the curtains, the sound of distant traffic mixing with the occasional bark of a dog outside. I had no appointments, no real reason to even leave the apartment, but the walls felt like they were closing in. So I grabbed my jacket, shoved my phone into my pocket, and stepped out without even knowing where I was heading. The air had that mix of crispness and faint warmth that makes you want to keep moving, like you could walk for hours without noticing the time. I wandered past the park, down streets I hadn’t been on in months, and eventually found myself somewhere I didn’t quite recognize. That’s when I saw the small hand-painted sign pointing toward
спам2021 chicken road.
At first, the name just made me curious. It had this odd, almost playful ring to it, like something out of a story you’d hear from a friend who just got back from traveling. The road itself was narrow, framed by uneven fences and old streetlamps that looked like they’d been there for decades. The houses had peeling paint in shades of blue and green, laundry lines stretched between balconies, and somewhere in the distance I could smell something cooking — that deep, rich aroma that instantly makes you think of home, even if it’s not your home. I slowed down without meaning to, almost like my body had decided this was a place worth noticing.
Halfway down chicken road, I spotted a small shop with the door propped open. Inside, there was a warm glow, the kind that comes from lightbulbs that have been there forever, not the harsh white of new ones. A man behind the counter greeted me like we’d known each other for years, asking if I was “just passing through” or if I’d “finally decided to see what’s at the end.” His voice had a calm, almost amused tone, like he’d seen this exact moment play out countless times. I told him I’d never been here before and he smiled in a way that made me feel like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. He poured me a cup of tea without asking what I wanted, and I didn’t mind at all — it was the kind of tea that makes you want to hold the cup for the warmth alone.
We ended up talking for a long time, about nothing and everything. He told me how chicken road had changed over the years, how people used to know every neighbor’s name, how the festivals would light up the whole street. I shared a bit about my own life, how lately I’d been caught in the cycle of work, sleep, repeat, and how I’d almost stayed home that day. There was a moment when we just sat there in silence, sipping tea, listening to the faint hum of a radio in the background. And in that moment, I realized how rare it is to feel truly present, not thinking about what’s next or what’s already passed.
When I finally left, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting long shadows that made the road look different than when I arrived. The air smelled faintly of rain, and I remember thinking that I could come back tomorrow and it wouldn’t feel the same — that was the strange magic of it. As I walked away, I kept glancing back, catching small glimpses of chicken road disappearing behind corners and trees, as if it was slowly tucking itself away again until the next curious wanderer showed up. That night, lying in bed, I thought about how I almost didn’t go for a walk at all, how easy it would have been to let the day slip past unnoticed. And yet, because I followed a quiet impulse, I found a place and a moment that felt like it belonged entirely to me.
If you’ve never stumbled into a street like that — one that pulls you in with no warning, one that makes you feel like you’ve been let in on a secret — you might not understand why I keep saying the name chicken road out loud, almost like a reminder to myself. But I think that’s exactly the point. Some places you visit once and forget. Others, you carry with you, even if you never see them again. This was one of those.