Lys found a clearing where no one spoke.
A hush had settled there—so delicate, even footsteps bowed to it.
At the center stood a pool, unreflective. Its surface gave no image, no truth.
Only weight.
When she knelt beside it, she did not see her face.
She saw a warmth she had once known, and lost, and tried not to speak of.
It rose in her chest—not as grief, but as recognition.
She said no words.
The silence heard them anyway.
The child sat beside a blind elder who had not spoken in years.
Not by vow. Not by fear.
By knowing.
"I used to think I'd forgotten everything," the elder murmured.
"But then I realized—some memories never needed form. They just… stay."
The child nodded.
"What should I do with them?" they asked.
The elder took a breath so soft, it felt like dusk descending.
And replied:
"Let them be the soil of your choices."
"Let them shape what you don't know you know."
