The river glowed beneath our feet,
yet the water did not swallow us.
It felt firm—like a bridge made of light.
The old man walked ahead,
his steps calm, steady, certain.
I followed closely,
my heart pounding with fear and wonder.
Halfway across,
the water around us began to shift.
Waves rose—not against us—
but as though forming shapes.
Faces emerged from the water.
Children, lovers, warriors, mothers, beggars…
Stories within each pair of eyes.
Some faces smiled,
others wept,
but all looked at me.
"What are they?" I asked, trembling.
The old man paused.
"Reflections of those who came before you.
Each carried their own burden,
their own dreams,
yet walked the same river."
As he spoke,
the water suddenly quieted.
A voice rose from the river—soft,
yet powerful enough to vibrate through my bones: "Who are you?"
I froze.
"I… I don't know," I whispered.
The river rejected the answer.
The water beneath me rippled violently.
For a moment, I thought I would fall.
The old man turned to me. "To walk this path,
you must know your truth.
Not your name…
but the reason your soul continues."
The river asked again—"Who are you?"
I shut my eyes.
Inside the darkness,
I saw my life unfold:
My childhood—
The faces of my parents—
The dreams I once held—
The fears that still followed me—
The loneliness I tried to hide…
And I saw the truth.I was someone
who feared insignificance.
Someone desperate to know
whether his life meant anything at all.
I spoke
"I am one who seeks meaning."
The river calmed instantly.
The old man nodded—
approval in his eyes. "That is enough."
We continued walking
toward the far side of the river.
The first test…
was done.
To be continued…
The moment we reached the far shore,
the world changed again.
A vast garden stretched before us—
silent and ancient.
Trees stood tall,
their leaves glowing faintly
as though storing memories.
The old man gestured forward.
"This is the Garden of Echoes."
As we walked deeper,
I noticed that the trees grew in pairs—
twisted toward one another,
branches intertwined like lovers.
Some trees were tall and healthy.
Others were dry and broken.
"What are these?" I asked.
He answered
These trees are the echoes
of every life that has walked the river.
He placed a hand on one tree.
A soft hum vibrated through it.
"Each tree represents a soul.
Their choices, regrets, joys
all rooted here.
I reached out to touch a nearby trunk.
The moment my hand rested on it,
a flash of memory struck me—
A young girl crying beside a deserted road…
A boy promising he would return…
He never did.The vision faded.
I gasped.What was that?!
The old man gazed at the tree sadly.
"Some souls bloom.
Some remain unfinished.
We walked further
until we reached a tree
that seemed to glow brighter than the rest.
This one, he said softly,
has been waiting.
For who?" I asked.
He looked directly at me."You.
My chest tightened.
The leaves rustled—
as though the tree recognized me.
I reached out again,
hesitant…
The moment my fingers touched the bark,
the world dissolved.
I found myself standing in a memory—
not mine.
Yet somehow familiar.
A small child sat alone,
watching his parents argue.
His hands covered his ears.
He cried silently.
The scene shifted—
The same child grew older,
carrying invisible burdens,
smiling for others
while breaking inside.
I saw myself in him.
The vision shattered.
I fell to my knees,
breathing hard.
The old man knelt beside me.
"Every soul carries pain.
Some hide it.
Some bury it.
But here…
nothing can remain unseen.
The glowing tree flickered—
as if waiting for my answer.
"What must I do?" I whispered.
"Accept it."
His words were simple—
yet felt heavier than the sky.
I placed my hand on my heart
and bowed my head.
The tree's glow softened—
its leaves falling like gentle rain.
As the last leaf touched the ground,
the garden whispered "He sees."
The old man stood, smiling faintly. "And now…
your real journey begins.
The old man's words continued echoing within me long after he disappeared into the crowd.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of my small room.
His voice… his story…
It felt like an invisible thread tying my heart to something ancient, something universal.
Are all lives woven from the same fabric?
To clear my thoughts, I stepped outside.
The night air was cool, and the stars looked like scattered truths across the sky.
As I walked through the nearly empty streets, I noticed people closing their shops, returning home—
each carrying their own joys, their own burdens.
Yet suddenly, I felt something strange.
Though each person seemed different…
their movements, their routines felt familiar—almost identical.
A child laughed and ran ahead of his mother.
A man pulled his tired body home after a long day.
Two lovers walked quietly, hands intertwined.
In them, I saw myself.
Different faces, same essence.
I remembered the old man's words. "Our thoughts make us different, but our fate makes us the same.
Suddenly, I wondered
Was destiny truly unchangeable?
Are we born into a path that we cannot alter?
Or…
Could there be one thread among the others—
a thread that could break free?
That night, sleep refused to come.
But strangely, I didn't mind.
Because it felt like my life had just begun.
The next morning, I returned to the banyan tree.
The air felt heavier than usual, as if carrying forgotten memories.
The old man was nowhere to be seen.
But beneath the roots of the tree, I noticed something half-buried in the soil.
A small, leather-bound diary.
My heartbeat raced as I brushed the dirt away.
The cover was cracked, pages faded,
but I could still read the name carved on it:
Arin.
The name felt familiar… but I didn't know why.
I opened the first page.To whoever finds this. If you seek freedom, read without fear. Not all roads are meant to be walked. Some are meant to be remembered."
The handwriting was shaky, yet filled with life.
I turned the page.
There were stories… Fragments of a journey.through cities, mountains, oceans.
Stories that sounded like the old man's memories.
His youth. His dreams. His failures. His return.
If this belonged to him…
why did he leave it behind?
Was I meant to find it?
As I read deeper, one sentence stopped me cold:
The one who reads this will continue the river I could not cross.
A chill ran through my veins.
Was the old man waiting for someone…
to finish what he could not?
Was that someone…
me?
I closed the diary, feeling its weight—not of paper, but of fate.
Something had begun.
A story written long ago—
and I was now a part of it.
A quiet promise formed in my heart:
I would follow the pages.
Wherever they led.
Because maybe.
just maybe
that was my thread in the grand tapestry of life.