The next dawn
felt thinner than usual —
as if morning had become
a membrane rather than a time.
Liora walked
toward the river bend
where fog braided itself
around reeds like deferred thoughts.
She intended to answer
the Rememberer’s question —
not perfectly,
just without performing.
But intentions, she was learning,
have a way of slipping
into theatre the moment
one notices oneself.
(1) Failure, Noticed Differently
She whispered into the fog,
halting, honest:
“I don’t know
what I become
when someone leans toward me.”
A long, soft pause.
Then, without judgement:
And what did you become
in trying to answer?
The question struck
not like a wound
but like a second heartbeat
revealed beneath the first.
She did not try to reply.
That restraint was the success.
(2) The Revealing Misunderstanding
Footsteps approached —
a boy carrying a jar
full of firefly-light
collected before dawn.
“Are you practising philosophy?”
he asked, eager.
“My father says philosophy
is teaching big things
with clever words.”
Liora nearly corrected him
but stopped —
realising his error
had shape, not stupidity.
“No,” she said slowly,
“I’m trying to learn
how not to mistake
clever words
for what is happening.”
The boy nodded
as if she had confirmed his theory.
He left satisfied —
which pierced her
in a way answers never had.
(3) The Too-Accurate Mirror
A moment later
the river surface stillened,
not like water
but like awareness.
Her reflection appeared
with perfect fidelity —
no distortion,
no shimmer,
no interpretive warmth.
And a terrible truth
passed through her:
There is nothing
more unhelpful
than a reflection
that neither errs
nor responds.
She closed her eyes
until the image dissolved —
not from sight,
but from claim.
(5) The Premature Knower
On the path back,
a travelling scholar
in layered grey garments
blocked her way.
He carried
a leather-bound notebook
loud with annotations.
“You’re the girl
who speaks in potentials,”
he said,
not as discovery
but as conclusion.
“I understand.
It’s all metaphor
for self-actualisation, yes?
Becoming your true self?”
Liora felt
a quiet sorrow —
not at his mistake,
but at his closure.
She simply said:
“If what you know
cannot change
by meeting me,
you do not yet know
what you think you know.”
He frowned
as if she were being evasive,
then walked away
believing himself unchallenged.
She did not correct him.
Truth, she sensed,
is not proved by argument
but made revisable.
Closing Line
Alone again,
Liora finally understood
what the Rememberer
needed her to see:
Meaning is not what you can say.
Meaning is what stays open
after you have spoken.
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