The Path of Silence

Quietly soft—
like the touch of wind
brushing the face
yet leaving no sound behind.

No “i” to dot,
no “t” to cross.

A bright, crisp page—
untouched by any ink.

And then…
someone who wished to make the first mark
stepped into my story.

The day was heavy with clouds.
Gentle raindrops slid down the window,
like time—
unable to stop.

I sat at an old wooden desk,
surrounded by stacks of paper,
and a pen
that seemed to have waited for centuries
for me to write something.

She arrived—
silently—
and took the chair opposite mine.
No greeting,
no question.
Only a quiet smile,
as if she already knew everything.

I wondered—
is a story something we write,
or something that writes itself through us?

She didn’t speak,
but in her eyes,
I saw the ocean.
I looked into those waves
and found myself far away—
on a shore
where even my footprints
were erased by the water.

No ache
that demanded I bear a cross.
No promise
that could become a burden.
Only a game
where winning meant
losing yourself.

And I…
was losing
and winning
at the same time.

A claim to fame,
at any cost—
I never sought it.
But maybe she did.
Or maybe she knew
that every story ends
by living forever in someone’s memory.

Night deepened,
the rain grew heavier.
We had not spoken a single word,
yet lines began to appear on the paper—
as if unseen hands
were guiding my fingers.

Chapter One—
A boy,
living in a city
where every window was shut
and every heart locked.
Each day he carried a white sheet of paper,
and sat in the city’s heart,
waiting for someone
to make the first mark.

One day
a girl came.
Her hands carried the scent of rain,
and in her eyes
was that same ocean
I had once seen beyond the window.

They met—
without words.
Between them,
a blank page.
And the breath of the wind
wrote the first word—
“Silence.”

The paper kept filling,
but strangely,
neither of them could remember
what was written.
Every word,
once placed,
was erased by the wind—
leaving only a faint trace,
like the shadow of someone long gone.

Finally,
for the first time,
she looked at me
and said one word—
“Get lost.”

I closed my eyes,
and when I opened them
there was no desk,
no paper,
no rain,
no her.

I was on an empty road,
lined with bending trees,
where light trickled through the leaves
and spilled onto the ground.

Even the light was silent.
I took a step forward,
and with each step
my memories faded a little more.
This was the same game—
where winning meant
losing yourself completely.

I looked back one last time.
Far away… so far,
she stood there,
smiling,
holding that same blank page—
still untouched.

Perhaps stories never truly end.
They simply
become silence.