Liora found the ladder at dawn, standing in the middle of a plain that had no reason to be flat.
It rose upward into cloud, rung after rung identical, polished by generations of hands.
“Where does it go?” she asked the air.
“To clarity,” the air replied. “To certainty. To the place where meaning is decided.”
Liora climbed. Each rung promised a wider view, and indeed the land below grew smaller, neater, easier to name. Villages became dots. Rivers became lines. Lives became patterns.
But something strange happened: the higher she climbed, the quieter the world became. No wind. No voices. No resistance.
At last she realised the ladder had no top — only less world.
She climbed down.
When her feet touched the ground again, the plain bloomed with sound. The ladder remained, but now she saw it clearly: not a path, but a habit.
She walked away sideways, and the ladder forgot her.
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