Chapter One – Understanding Lies Beyond Words

​

I lifted my eyes from the book and looked toward the crowded bookshelf. I pictured her—the figure rising from the printed lines—the scents, the sounds, and the gentle touches that had become a faint memory. A slender girl in a colorful dress, stained with the soot of the streets, skipped along the sidewalk with a graceful dance-like motion. Her bright green eyes pierced through the crowd. Her dark skin blended with her black hair, fluttering in the breeze blowing in from the sea.

As always, I skipped to the final chapter and began reading from the end.

A tightness in my throat. I couldn’t rise—the basement was flooded. Muffled voices reached my ears, but my body was weakening. With the last of my strength, I tried to open the door. My hands slipped from the handle, my mouth filled with water, and I had no air left. The suffocation spread through my throat, overpowering me, releasing me from the struggle. What happened to me? I couldn’t change it—it was beyond my control. I realized I wouldn’t survive. I let go of the panic and surrendered. Silence spread around me. A hush. Another current swept my body, carrying it away from the locked door. I hovered above myself, watching the girl floating in the water—my slender figure, my sad face, my wide open eyes, and my black hair slicked over the surface. I was confused. Had I died? No, that couldn’t be.

​

"She died?! Why?" I felt a pang of sorrow, yet I kept reading.

​

I was detached from my body but felt alive—light and floating. "Wake up." It was only a thought. No sound came from

my lips. I was in the basement, intangible and weightless, yet present—hearing my own thoughts. The walls no longer confined me; I passed through them. And so I left behind the familiar image of myself, pale cheeks and lifeless form. Light and calm, I floated slowly upward, away from the church. The bells tolled—it was time for mass—but the flooded streets were empty.

I felt anger. The Arno River, where I had spent much of my life, had betrayed me, flooding the city and taking me with it. As I wandered among the bare trees, flashes of memories merged into a bright ray of light that pierced through the branches. I saw my life from its beginning, not like a dream, but as memories. "The fountain," I remembered—we used to play there. I loved to walk along its edge with dancing steps, while my little brother, Lorenzo, splashed in the water. A sharp pain pierced me. I had to say goodbye to that girl—ragged colorful clothes, midnight hair, a beautiful face marked by the street. I would never again feel my brother’s warm skin or the touch of his body.

"Esmeralda! Esmeralda!" I heard my mother’s voice calling from afar. She was running through the streets, looking for me. "Where’s Lorenzo?" I wondered. Relief washed over me when he emerged from the corner, trailing after her. I followed them. She looked worried. I moved closer, unsure how to make them sense I was there. My mother, distraught over my disappearance, didn’t notice me, even though I poured all my energy into trying to be seen. Lorenzo paused. It seemed he could feel me.

"My sweet brother, I already miss you," I begged silently, hoping he could feel my love. My mother kept walking, urging him to follow, but he hesitated. She turned back, took his hand, and pulled him along. I watched them disappear into the distance.

"Come, child. You need to go. They're waiting for you."

I heard a whisper. "Who’s speaking to me?" I wondered, but responded without asking. "Your guardian friend," came the soft, soothing reply, like wind chimes. I wanted to go home with my mother and Lorenzo. I couldn’t leave him alone. What would he do without me?

"Let me say goodbye," I cried out in silence, tears streaming. The life I was leaving still pulsed within me. Its moments etched in me, impossible to erase. A comforting white light enveloped me. I curled into it, drawn toward the voice guiding me.

"Let go. He’ll be okay."

"Where am I going?" I asked.

"You’re going home."

"Home?" I echoed, confused.

"To yourself."

I didn’t fully understand, but her voice brought peace, making it easier to let go of my body—as if I were an actress stepping off the stage after the final scene and returning to real life.

Why had I chosen the image of a wildcat-like girl? I suppose I was influenced by tales of ancient Egypt. The Egyptians believed that black cats with green eyes possessed mystical powers and healing energy. Now, my body was gone, and with it the anxiety, despair, anger, and mystery. All those feelings had stemmed from one thing—misunderstanding.

I had been a false mask of myself. But why now?

I felt the need to stop reading. I was overwhelmed. The pain gripped me. I didn’t know her, but I felt close to her. The chimes of her birth rang in my heart as I kept reading her story.

A slender, dark-skinned woman. Her face was full of anguish. She gave birth to a baby girl at the front entrance of the Notre-Dame Cathedral. I thought to myself: how poetic, to be born beneath the holy mother holding baby Jesus. Another baby girl. A fate that meant nothing. To her left stood the statue of the crucified Christ, and above her, golden figures depicted Judgment Day and Heaven. If only the statues could speak. It was my birthday, but I despised it. To me, it was just another meaningless day.

My mother told me they wrapped me in a blanket and took us to a small side storeroom, so we wouldn’t defile the sacred space. One of the nuns who helped her recover asked about her origins. When she discovered my mother was a gypsy, she told her the legend of Esmeralda from Notre-Dame. That’s how I got my name. “Esmeralda of Paris,” my mother would call me lovingly. I liked my name.

When I was older, she told me about the Esmeralda of Notre-Dame: “A young woman with the magical power of eternal youth. So beautiful that men couldn’t resist her. Your eyes—they pierce into the soul, like hers.”

My mother loved me. She carried me through life and cared for my every need. She never told me who my father was. She suspected he was one of the soldiers who frequented the brothel where she worked. When I was eight months old, we moved with her work to a brothel along the Arno River in Florence, Italy.

My brother Lorenzo was born there. At first, he didn’t breathe. The midwife massaged his chest as my mother lay pale on bloodstained sheets. I prayed he wouldn’t die. After a long minute, he gasped—life sparked within him. He cried, the midwife cut the cord, cleaned his tiny body, laid him on our mother’s chest, and he began to nurse. A ray of sunlight slipped through the shutters and lit them up like a holy painting—Mary and Jesus in the church we visited every Sunday, surrounded by a halo of light.

Lorenzo’s father was a tall, wealthy Italian man. He supported us financially when Lorenzo was born and sometimes visited in the evenings—but never stayed the night. When he hugged our mother, she leaned on his shoulder and smiled. On Lorenzo’s first birthday, the man disappeared and never returned. Mother said he had died and never spoke of him again. After he vanished, she supported us through begging and street performances. Later, she began coming home smelling of alcohol. Because of our poverty, she couldn’t afford to send me to school. I spent most of my time caring for Lorenzo and helping around the house. With him, I never felt lonely. Even as a baby, the seriousness in his eyes made me feel understood. I sang to him and spoke to him like a secret friend. Sometimes men came to the house. They were gone by sunrise. At noon, I would bring him to my mother as she begged. We sat beside her, hoping our presence would stir pity. One winter, Lorenzo became gravely ill. From then on, we never left the house on cold days.

Eventually, my mother found work in a leather factory. With her income, we enrolled at the monastery school. After classes, I wandered barefoot through the city’s alleyways, a bracelet jingling on my ankle. My black hair dancing in the wind, I skipped along the cobblestones and smiled at passersby. On hot days, I played in the carved fountains. I felt the curved streets of Florence whispering to me, “Come, Esmeralda, dance between our walls and breathe life into us.” I caressed the stones, feeling their strength. Each leaned on the next as if comforting one another, weaving stories from different times. Rainwater had soaked into them, leaving traces deep within. My tiny fingers traced the stones, begging them to open their hearts. Through the noise of the city, the stones whispered tales: of lovers hiding from angry parents, of children's laughter fading with the years, of a woman weeping after being abandoned, and of an old man walking to ease his aching bones, saying farewell to the stones before passing on. Each stone in the quarter held a story. I walked slowly, rested my hands on the cold stones, kissed them with trembling lips, and wondered—was I the only one who could hear them?

Sometimes, the alleys led me to one of Florence’s many churches. I would sit at the feet of the Holy Mother holding baby Jesus and wrap myself in her merciful gaze.

On sunny winter days, Lorenzo joined me. I had to watch him while our mother sang and danced in the streets. When I danced with her, he wandered through the crowd, dreamy-eyed, holding a hat to collect coins. I learned my dance steps by watching my mother. After the performance, we played. I’d rest my head against a wall and count to ten with my eyes closed. Lorenzo would run, looking for a hiding place. He rarely got far, so I’d find him easily, usually in the nearby church—under a bench or behind a statue.

Once, I found him curled inside an old bookshelf. He grumbled that I had found him too quickly. He didn’t know the walls whispered his path to me. Another time, Lorenzo hid so well I couldn’t find him. I leaned against a wall, trying to hear its whispers—but nothing came. The stones were silent. I called his name, but heard no giggles. “He hid well this time,” I thought. The sun began to set. Rain poured down. We had to get home before Mother returned.

"Lorenzo, come out! It’s getting late—we have to go!" He didn’t answer. A strange chill ran through me. A woman approached and shouted, “Go home, child! The city’s flooding!”

I hadn’t noticed the cold creeping into my bare feet. The city’s canals overflowed, flooding the streets. I raised my voice again. "Lorenzo, come back! Enough! We’re not playing anymore—we need to go home!" I tried to remember where I had found him before. He usually hid in the church basements. People ran around me, shouting: "Run, child!" But I couldn’t leave without him.

An older woman stopped beside me, asking what I was doing in the flood. I told her about Lorenzo, and with a soft sob, I said I couldn’t go home without him. She took my hand and led me to the nearby church. "Look here," she said. "But be quick."

I entered the vast sanctuary. The echo returned the sound of my breath. I stood before the Holy Mother’s statue. “Please, help me find Lorenzo,” I begged, as drops soaked my dress. I looked up and saw tears flowing from the Virgin’s eyes. I felt Lorenzo’s presence. “He’s here,” a voice whispered within me. “Go to the basement!” I ran to the stairway, descending quickly. Water reached my knees, slowing my steps.

"Lorenzo, answer me! Please!" I shouted. A shiver ran through me. I felt him. So many doors. I knew he was behind one of them. I tried one, but the water made it hard to open. I swam to the next, but something pulled me toward a large wooden door.

"Open it," a voice whispered. I couldn’t. "Please, open," I begged. "I can’t breathe. I’m out of strength." I placed my hand on the handle. Suddenly, the heavy door swung open with ease. Inside, a large bookshelf stood. I approached. On the top shelf, curled up, shivering from cold and fear, was my little brother. I grabbed him and pulled him toward the door. The water was now up to my shoulders. I pushed him out. "Go! Climb the stairs!" I cried. Lorenzo, small and light, slipped through and climbed. I followed—but a wave slammed the door shut, trapping me below. As I struggled, the water continued to rise…

Suddenly, Tom awoke.

​

I stopped reading. I set the book on the table, and we left the library. It was our tenth day wandering the streets. I had to

hurry. We needed a place to sleep before nightfall.

​

​

​

Chapter Two – Let’s See You Manage Now

​

When I told my husband I wanted a divorce, I didn’t expect him to react so extremely. But he lost all restraint and unleashed a torrent of cruel accusations. He blamed me for destroying our home, called me a faithless woman plagued by incurable madness, and claimed I was systematically ruining his life. Then he went silent.

A few days later, he packed his belongings, took the credit cards and checkbooks, and left. Two weeks after that, a bank clerk called to ask me to cover a large debt. The regular salary that had been deposited into our joint account had suddenly been rerouted elsewhere.

"Let’s see you manage now!" he snapped during a brief phone call in which I had pleaded with him not to make things worse—and to help me buy food and diapers for our son.

"He’s speaking to me like a father punishing his wayward daughter," I thought bitterly. My financial situation was dire. By mutual agreement, I hadn’t returned to work after giving birth, and our livelihood had depended solely on him.

Most of our shared life had been defined by a lulling, dull routine. There was no great passion, no deep love—so I had naively believed that our divorce would be quiet and civil. But now, the mounting bills piling up on my table gnawed away at the fragile sense of relief I had felt after finally telling him I wanted to leave.

Since I could no longer afford rent, I was served with a court order from our landlord to vacate the apartment. And so, on New Year’s Eve, as fireworks lit up the dark sky in dazzling shapes and colors, I was left with nothing. I sat frozen in the home that had once been so familiar, counting down the minutes. In the morning, I would have to leave.

Aside from a single suitcase packed with Tohm’s clothes, mine, and a few personal items, I took nothing from the apartment. The furniture I had collected over five years of marriage sat silently, like museum pieces.

The dream we once shared—of a home, a family—was gone. Guilt, like a poisonous snake, still coiled inside me, whispering that I had destroyed my family in the name of personal happiness. A last shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could somehow make amends, was shattered by the sound of the door slamming behind me.

And so, on the morning of the first day of the new year, after handing the key to a locksmith who changed the locks on my now-former apartment, the separation hit me. I was on the street, homeless. I stood paralyzed on the familiar sidewalk, holding my baby in my arms, a single question echoing in my mind: "Where do I go now?" Like Eve cast out of Eden, I had bitten the forbidden fruit and been banished.

The gate had shut behind me. There was no going back. I feared the obstacles that awaited me on the path ahead. I walked the streets, gently cradling my baby in one hand, dragging a suitcase with the other, as if my body had split in two. The sidewalks had deteriorated over the years, and I struggled to keep my balance. When I stopped to steady the suitcase, I noticed neighbors watching from their windows, examining the strange image disrupting the protective routine of their lives. They probably assumed a taxi would arrive any moment to whisk us away on vacation.

After walking aimlessly for ten minutes, I stopped at the light rail station. Tohm drank porridge from his bottle. The tram arrived, packed with people, so we waited for the next one. I looked at my child’s innocent face and wondered, "Could I have lived differently? Where do I belong?"

The meaning of my choices had yet to become clear. In those moments, I felt like a tragic heroine defying her destiny. Had I deluded myself into believing I could alter fate? What reckless force had dragged me—and Tohm—into this uncertain adventure?

For a time, Tohm and I slept in various shelters across the city. I tried to maintain a sense of normalcy, but the shelters only allowed one-night stays. Every morning, I packed our few belongings and pushed Tohm’s stroller through the streets, searching for a teaching job. I was a university graduate and had taught before he was born, but the school year had already begun, and all the positions were filled.

Out of desperation, I entered restaurants on the main street to ask if they needed help. One place offered me a waitress job—but when they asked if I had childcare, I shook my head and left.

To create a peaceful routine for Tohm, I spent the rest of our days in playgrounds, surrounded by mothers and their children. Tohm knew the parks well and had developed a sense of independence. Still, I followed him wherever he crawled. He loved exploring and would often wander away from the bench where I sat.

Around each play structure gathered mothers of various kinds—some experienced, others new to the role like me. They watched their children, snatching brief moments for conversation, always interrupted by a child in need. The talk was always about the children. It seemed that becoming a mother had shrunk our world to teething troubles, illnesses, and the latest educational toys. I mostly stayed silent, listening, feeling they knew more than I did. I memorized their advice and constantly compared myself to them.

In the evenings, as they returned to their warm homes, bathtubs, hot dinners, and beds with soft sheets, I was left with a gnawing feeling that I wasn’t a good enough mother. I thought that by following a strict daily routine, I could create stability—but I was wrong.

The other children went home. I used what little money I had managed to withdraw before the bank account was closed to buy food. We returned to the shelter—to the chaos, the shouting. Tohm and I shared a bed. At night, I held him close so he’d feel safe. I avoided crying, not wanting him to sense my trembling. I thought about how completely my life had changed. Was I in a parallel world? The streets looked the same, the language was the same, but this was a different reality—one with no exit. I longed for my old life, even though I knew it had been dark in its own way.

On the evening of our tenth day on the streets, I rushed to find a shelter. They usually filled up by 6:00 PM. Fortunately, I found one near the park where we spent most of our days. It was clean. The room held rows of metal beds with thin mattresses. Each bed had a chain and coded lock to secure bags. Next to my bed was a small stool I used as a table, placing bottles, a pacifier, and porridge on it.

It was a small shelter—no more than twenty beds. Hot meals were served in another room. When I inquired about the place, one resident told me it was funded by a wealthy man who had once lost everything. He had spent time on the streets, and once he regained his footing, he decided to open shelters for those less fortunate. I felt blessed.

A week into our stay, the shelter’s manager, Mr. Pasteur, approached me. His white hair and slow, stooped walk suggested he had witnessed many hardships. He walked over to Tohm, who was crawling after a rubber ball. Mr. Pasteur picked it up and handed it back to his tiny hands. Tohm studied him, then hesitantly took the ball and crawled into my lap.

Mr. Pasteur turned to me. "May I sit?" he asked. I cleared the bottles from the stool. He nodded and sat.

"I’ve been watching you since you arrived. It’s been a week. What brought you here?" he asked.

His deep voice reminded me of my father, who died when I was seven. I told him my story. I tried to stay calm so as not to worry Tohm. He listened closely. When I finished, he stood, gently stroked Tohm’s head, and promised to help.

He tried to comfort me: "The man who helped build this place once told me that every crisis in his life was like a vaccine made from weakened bacteria—it hurt, but it made him stronger. Now he’s strong, and he helps others."

From that day on, breaking the shelter’s usual rules, Mr. Pasteur saved us a regular bed, set slightly apart from the others. I deeply appreciated his kind gestures. His care and concern were rare in the new world I had entered.

​

Chapter Three – Mister Ghost

​

You’re deep in thought again," Mister Ghost said with concern.

We were sitting in our favorite café. It was getting late. Though we often talked late into the night, once again I’d forgotten to bring a coat. As he walked me home, he wrapped me in his long coat so I wouldn’t freeze. We strolled slowly down the street. After a short walk, he stopped beneath the glow of a streetlamp, looked into my eyes, smiled, and said softly, "I’m not leaving so soon—I promised you, remember?" A wave of warmth spread through me. "It’s not time yet," he added.

We continued walking. I rested my head on his shoulder. For the first time, calm spread through my limbs. I felt safe—so different from our first meeting, when I had felt only wonder.

We first met—Ghost and I—on a winter evening. That morning had already hinted at an approaching storm. The rain pounding on the window had woken me. Wrapped in a thick wool blanket, still in my favorite lavender flannel pajamas, I stepped onto the covered balcony and gazed down at the city’s main boulevard. I dragged out a wicker chair from the living room, sipped my first coffee of the day, and watched the world below. The boulevard stretched between two main roads, ending in a major intersection.

I watched the traffic—cars wrestling with buses, trying to carve out space in the chaos. Cyclists dodged through potholes and irregular waves of movement. Scooters darted in and out of lanes. Neon lights and traffic signals splashed red and blue across the gray morning. Dogs and stray cats huddled together from the rain, as if their rivalry was only a matter of perspective. People, like the vehicles, crossed paths in unbearable density, fleeing the storm.

A woman pushing a stroller tried to cross the flooded street. Cars stopped at a red light, waiting for her to reach the other side—even after the light turned green. Despite the congestion and confusion of the morning rush, I noticed the rhythm of the moving crowd—like a living creature whose limbs moved in sync. Drivers and pedestrians adapted to the city’s shifting tempo in every moment. "There’s order in the randomness," I thought, and shivered. I went back inside.

Once I gathered myself, I dressed in a black dress, wrapped myself in a synthetic fur coat, and headed downtown, gripping the handle of a wide umbrella that shielded my entire body.

The storm, which had started early, seemed to have passed, but sudden gusts of wind still disrupted the calm. I spent hours wandering the city’s stylish shops, wrapped in my solitude, until evening quietly descended. I breathed in the scent of rain and returned to the boulevard, gazing at the starless sky. Thunder and lightning signaled another storm. A fierce wind pushed me forward. I felt I was losing control of my movements. The rain grew heavier, and the umbrella in my hand turned inside out. I searched for shelter.

I didn’t want to go home. I was afraid to be alone. I remembered a small café at the end of the street—close to home, though I had never been inside. I hurried toward it, skipping over puddles. The warm light shining through the windows told me it was open.

A young waitress greeted me with a polite smile that revealed two dimples, giving her a childlike innocence. Noticing my wet hair and coat, she asked if I wanted to sit by the fireplace. I nodded. She took two menus and led me to the southern corner of the café, beside a brown brick wall and a glowing hearth. We passed a long antique wooden table in the center of the room, surrounded by soft velvet armchairs covered in colorful floral patterns. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, nearly touching a glass vase filled with white lilies.

She placed the menus on one of the small round tables, each lit by a yellow-shaded lamp. "I’ll be right back to take your order," she said. I wondered, "Why two identical menus?"

Looking around, I saw only a few couples in the café. I gestured for the waitress, who hadn’t returned yet. Steam rose from the espresso machine behind the bar, spreading the rich aroma of coffee.

And then I saw him.

He sat by the bar in a red velvet armchair embroidered with flowers that contrasted with his tailored gray trousers. His frame was long and lean. Beneath his gray sweater peeked the collar of a pale button-down shirt. His black hair was slicked back. A dark stubble lined his fair face. He wore square-framed sunglasses that hid his expression. He looked to be in the prime of life, yet something about him felt... otherworldly. On the table before him sat a cup and a plate with crumbs. He had been there for a while.

I watched as he typed with long, slender fingers on a laptop, occasionally flipping through a brown leather-bound journal. Suddenly, he stopped. Slowly, he lifted his head from the screen and looked directly at me. Heat rushed to my cheeks. "He saw me staring," I thought. I hoped the waitress would see my raised hand and come take my order. I stared into the flickering flame on my table—it seemed to dance to the rhythm of my breath. I thought about my life, crisis after crisis.

Then I heard his voice. "May I join you?"

I looked up. He was standing at my table, waiting for my answer. I wiped away the tears now streaming down my cheeks. Without waiting for a response, he sat beside me.

"Skies like this," he said, "they move something in the human spirit." His slow speech gave weight to every word. Despite the dark lenses, I felt his gaze pierce me. I didn’t understand what he meant—it made him seem even stranger.

He leaned closer and whispered, "It’s a stormy day. A day of winds."

"Yes, strong winds," I replied, nodding.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

"No, it’s my first time."

"And you?" I asked, curious why he was alone, and why he had approached me.

"First time for me too," he said with a smile.

"Were you meeting someone?" I asked, intrigued.

"Yes," he replied with firm certainty. "I was meeting you."

"Sorry, do I know you?" I asked, smiling faintly, trying to hide my tension, while also trying to figure out his intentions.

"In a way."

"But… we’ve never met," I said hesitantly.

"That’s what you think. Think back—remember your request. You called me to come," he said, calm and confident.

I stared at him in confusion, then embarrassment. His words and tone felt foreign. "Could I be losing my mind?"

"Your request," he repeated firmly. "That’s what drew me to you."

"Only a request born of hope and from the depths of the heart can be fulfilled. I heard yours—it reached me from afar," he added. Suddenly, he stood, apologized, and said he had to go. He put on his coat, and before walking out, he said, "We’ll meet again."

"Where?" I asked hesitantly. I had indeed asked for help during many dark nights, but it was more of a plea to the universe—a kind of prayer. I never imagined it might be answered.

"I’ll find you," Ghost said, as if he knew more about me than I did, and left.

The waitress arrived just then to take my order. As she wrote, I stared at the empty seat. "Was he real? Did we speak? Or was it just an illusion?" I suddenly found it hard to believe this man had appeared out of nowhere—and vanished.

By the time we reached my apartment building, I was still deep in thought about that first meeting. I turned on the stairwell light, removed my coat, and thanked him. He stepped closer, took the coat from my hands, and embraced me. I felt comforted by the affection he had shown me in recent days. It wasn’t much, always restrained, but warm—teaching me about the kindness beneath his reserved exterior.

I thought again about our first encounter, which came at the end of a long divorce battle. My days had felt chaotic, directionless. Two years of exhausting legal proceedings had left me scattered, unable to rebuild.

The stairwell light went out. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the anger rising in me. If only I’d met him years earlier—when I stood at life’s crossroads—so much pain could have been spared. Suddenly, a sharp pain struck my body, and I collapsed onto the stairs.

"Are you okay?" Ghost asked, rushing to turn the light back on. I shook my head, struggling to breathe.

"The sedative wore off," I said, in pain.

"Come, let me help you upstairs." He slung my bag over his shoulder, offered me his hands, and helped me up. I looked at the staircase I climbed daily—it now felt like a mountain, with a distant temple at the top. Reaching it seemed possible only through faith.

But it wasn’t faith guiding me then. It was necessity. I couldn’t stay at the foot of the stairs forever. I longed to reach my apartment, take the sedative I’d been prescribed during my hospitalization, and rest.

We finally reached the third floor after several breaks and battles with the fickle stairwell light. He rummaged through my bag, found the keys, and opened the door. I leaned against the wall, waiting. When the door opened, I wanted to rush to bed, but instead dragged myself to the nearest couch and lay down. He handed me the pill with a glass of water. I drank gratefully, and he sat in the armchair.

"I’m sick of this!" I cried. "I don’t deserve this! Why can’t my life be better?"

"Even in your question, you’re already admitting your life is good—at least somewhat," he said calmly.

"My life is a mess! How did I get here?!" I tried again. He didn’t respond.

"In a single breath, you called your life both good and a mess. Forgive me, dear one, but I must ask—did you actually say you want to change it?" His wordplay stung a little.

"Yes, of course I want change! I feel like the years keep pulling me further from the life I dreamed of. What a waste!"

"You’re drowning in self-pity," he said. "You’re blind to the fact that everyone’s life—including yours—unfolds according to a higher order. One of the first lessons is understanding that there is no randomness, no meaninglessness. If you examine your life, you’ll see that nothing is coincidence—there’s a pattern, a purpose behind it all."

"But why can’t I see it?" I asked, frustrated, dizzy.

"Look at nature—there’s order in everything. The sun doesn’t rise by chance. The moon and stars don’t shine when they feel like it. They follow clear laws and serve a purpose. That same pattern guides the universe—and you’re part of it. You, too, move according to a system with intention. One day you’ll understand: everything happened exactly as it was meant to."

I wanted to ask him about that system—who set it in motion? Is there a guiding hand? What is the purpose? And most of all, why had the pieces of my world been scattered so badly that it seemed they would never come together again? Was that part of the purpose too?

But I stayed silent. I felt the answers lay elsewhere.

"Teach me," I said. "I want to know everything!" My voice carried the resolve of someone who had reached the end of a chaotic road, paved with good intentions, and found it led nowhere.

"Very few are willing to walk the path you’ve chosen. Only the brave do," he said. "It requires a great deal of personal responsibility. Success and failure are both parts of the journey—even if, in the end, only victory is remembered, and failure is forgotten."

His words, though they sounded like a warning, made me shrink. But he continued: "You’ll learn to look at your life and see its hidden order." Then he stood and said he had to go.

Before leaving, he added, "Watch carefully how events unfold in your life. Are they truly random? Try to uncover the laws that shape your life."

"Wait, don’t go! You promised to teach me. I can’t do this on my own," I pleaded.

"The learning begins within you," he said—and left.