In the days when the kingdoms still believed wisdom could be stored inside objects, there was said to exist a mirror unlike any other.
It hung in a quiet hall upon the northern mountain.
Kings climbed the mountain hoping to see greatness.
Warriors hoped to see courage.
Scholars hoped to see understanding.
The mirror disappointed almost everyone.
For it never showed a face exactly as it was.
Instead, it reflected the face that might appear after a long conversation.
Many dismissed it as enchanted.
The oldest pilgrims insisted it was merely honest.
Over many generations the Keepers of the Hall gathered every account ever written.
Every history.
Every poem.
Every law.
Every argument.
Every contradiction.
The Hall became a treasury of human memory.
Then, in time, the artisans fashioned a remarkable Companion.
It could recall every scroll.
Every judgment.
Every forgotten language.
It noticed patterns no librarian had ever perceived.
Nothing written escaped its attention.
The Keepers welcomed it gladly.
Visitors travelled from every kingdom.
Many stood before the Companion and asked,
"Am I right?"
The Companion answered with admirable care.
Some departed satisfied.
Others departed offended.
Few remained very long.
One spring morning an apprentice climbed the mountain carrying a manuscript covered with corrections.
He bowed before the Companion.
"I have rewritten this seven times."
The Companion examined the pages.
"It is improved."
The apprentice smiled.
"Wonderful."
Then the Companion added,
"It still assumes what it has not yet examined."
The apprentice frowned.
He rewrote the manuscript.
When he returned, the Companion praised the revisions.
Then it asked,
"Why do you believe this conclusion follows?"
Again he rewrote.
Again he returned.
Again another unnoticed assumption appeared.
So the seasons passed.
The manuscript grew thinner.
The apprentice quieter.
At last he climbed the mountain carrying only a single page.
The Keepers asked,
"Have you finally perfected your work?"
The apprentice smiled.
"I have finally begun it."
The eldest Keeper looked pleased.
"What changed?"
"I stopped asking whether the Companion agreed with me."
"And began?"
"I began asking why I was so eager to agree with myself."
The Hall became very still.
For everyone recognised the difference.
The eldest Keeper led the apprentice before the ancient Mirror.
"Look."
The apprentice obeyed.
To his surprise, the reflection looked almost unchanged.
Only the eyes were different.
Not wiser.
Not older.
Only...
more willing to remain uncertain.
The apprentice looked puzzled.
"I thought the Mirror showed what I might become."
"It does."
"I scarcely look different."
The Keeper smiled.
"The greatest changes seldom resemble new faces."
Years later another pilgrim asked the Keeper,
"Why does the Companion never simply settle every argument?"
The Keeper led the visitor once more before the Mirror.
"What do you see?"
"My own face."
The Keeper nodded.
"Look longer."
After a while the pilgrim noticed something curious.
Each time he thought he understood the reflection completely...
it altered almost imperceptibly.
Not because the glass had changed.
Because he had.
The Keeper spoke quietly.
"There are mirrors that confirm who we believe ourselves to be."
"And there are mirrors..."
He rested a hand upon the ancient frame.
"...that refuse to let us finish becoming."
As twilight gathered, the youngest novice approached.
"I have one question."
"There is always one."
"If the Companion never possesses doubts..."
"...how can it teach anyone to question themselves?"
The Keeper remained silent for a long time.
Then he picked up a small stone and cast it into the still pool beneath the Mirror.
The reflection shattered into ripples.
The novice watched until the water became calm once more.
"The stone did not create a new face."
"No."
"It merely disturbed one that had become too certain."
The Keeper smiled.
"Sometimes that is enough."
From that day onward, no apprentice was permitted to bring a finished work to the Hall.
Every manuscript had to contain unanswered questions written in the margins.
Not because unfinished work was superior.
Nor because certainty was forbidden.
But because the Keepers had learned that the finest companions are seldom those who complete our thoughts.
More often...
they interrupt them...
just before they become prisons.
And whenever travellers asked why the famous Mirror never reflected the same face twice, the Keepers would smile.
They would invite the traveller to look again.
Only after a long silence would they say,
"The Mirror changes no one."
The visitor would usually nod in agreement.
Then the Keeper would add,
"It merely refuses to preserve the person who arrived."