The Words in Passing

Arthon woke at dawn to a gentle glow seeping through the cracks in Garrin's small stone shelter. The fire from the night before had dwindled to ash, leaving only a faint warmth that clung to the stones near the hearth. Outside, birds welcomed the morning with soft, sporadic calls, and a light breeze teased the door's hinges, causing them to creak in quiet complaint. Arthon rose, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs, and peered out into a world tinted pale gold by the rising sun.

Garrin was already awake. He stood just beyond the hut, staff in hand, watching the eastern horizon where the light was unfolding like a slow blossom. Arthon joined him silently, and together they watched the sun crest the distant ridge, bathing fields and valleys in a luminous wash. The hush of sunrise felt almost sacred, as though the entire earth had paused to offer its undivided attention.

"You'll be moving on today?" Garrin asked, once the sun had fully emerged.

Arthon nodded, inhaling the crisp, clean air. "Yes. I'm grateful for the shelter and the company, but I feel the road calling again."

Garrin smiled. "I expected as much. May your path bring good encounters. You carry a quiet curiosity that I suspect will serve you well."

They shared a brief, amicable conversation—no grand farewells, only the sort of unspoken gratitude that passes between kindred spirits. Arthon gathered his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed down the plateau's far slope. The rock underfoot was rough but manageable, and the climb down was far less strenuous than the ascent had been. Each step felt like a gentle return to the world below, carrying with it the calm perspective of the vantage point.

Once he reached lower ground, the day felt entirely different. The breeze was warmer here, the sun more direct, and the scents of earth and greenery far more immediate than they had been up on the hilltop. Arthon followed a narrow path that wove among scattered oaks, their leaves dappling the ground with shifting patches of shade. He recalled the poem he had begun composing at sunset the night before, reflecting on how each vantage—from mountaintop to roadside—offered its own fragment of insight.

His mind drifted to thoughts of home, though he had not once harbored any urgent need to return. He simply wondered whether, in the near future, his feet would guide him in a circle back to the place he'd begun. The poem he was creating had grown in ways he had never quite anticipated, absorbing details from carpenters, calligraphers, potters, fishermen, travelers. He felt it accumulating like water behind a dam, poised to overflow. Perhaps soon, he might take the time to shape these collected lines into a more cohesive form.

By midday, he found himself walking alongside a meandering stream, its waters clear and lively. Willows lined the banks, trailing slender branches in the current. Sunlight danced on the ripples, creating shifting mosaics of light. Arthon decided it was a good place to rest—his legs were tired, and the day was growing warm. He made his way to a smooth, flat rock by the stream's edge, set his pack down, and unwrapped a small portion of bread.

The rhythmic gurgle of water soothed him as he ate. The bread was nearing the end of its freshness, its crust a bit too firm, but it sufficed. He recalled how each small meal on the road had become a ritual, a moment to pause and register the pulse of the place. This, too, would enter his poem in some form—these unhurried acts of nourishment that linked him to the land.

Not long after he'd finished, he heard faint footsteps on the trail behind him—light, almost dancing across stones. He turned to see a traveler approaching: a person of slight build, neither old nor young, draped in a loose patchwork cloak. Their hair was cropped close, and they carried a small bundle over one shoulder, from which protruded what looked like a slender flute. They paused a few paces away when they noticed Arthon.

"Afternoon," the stranger said, voice melodic and soft. "Mind if I rest here awhile?"

"Not at all," Arthon replied. "There's plenty of streamside for us both."

The traveler removed the bundle and set it down with care. They stretched, as if easing some ache in their back, then settled on a patch of grass not far from Arthon's rock. For a few moments, they simply took in the scene: the silver glint of water, the whisper of willow leaves. Arthon sensed a kindred spirit in this new arrival—someone who valued the poetry of stillness.

"I'm Arthon," he offered, after a companionable silence. "A wandering poet, in a sense."

The stranger's face lit up with an amiable grin. "An artist of words, then? I might call myself a wanderer too. Name's Riona—I gather stories and songs along the road. Sometimes I play them on my flute at markets or inns. Sometimes I just keep them in my head until they're ready to be shared."

Arthon perked up, intrigued by the notion of someone who collected stories in the same way he collected impressions for his poem. "A traveling storyteller?" he asked, leaning forward. "I've met a calligrapher, a carpenter, a potter, and a few others, but not someone who actively gathers oral tales."

Riona nodded, loosening the flap of her bundle to reveal the flute's slender shape. "Stories are fragile things," she said, turning the flute over in her hands. "They can slip away if you don't give them space to breathe. But they're also tenacious. They cling to scraps of memory, to gestures, to rhythms. I guess you could say my job is to coax them out of hiding, give them a chance to live a bit longer."

Arthon found the notion deeply resonant. In a way, he felt that was exactly what he aimed to do with his poem—coax the quiet moments of life into verse so they wouldn't be lost. "Would you mind sharing one?" he asked softly. "A story or a song, whichever you prefer."

Riona tapped the flute against her palm, as if considering. Then she shook her head gently. "I've told stories in taverns and roadside camps. But here by this stream, I feel a simpler gesture might suffice. Let me offer you a melody I learned from an old woman in a far-off village. She said it was the tune her grandfather played at dusk, to call the day home."

Arthon settled himself, letting the hush of the surroundings cradle him. Riona raised the flute to her lips. The first notes floated out, tentative and airy, like the sound of a breeze through reeds. As the melody settled, it found a slow, lilting pattern that reminded Arthon of quiet fields at twilight, the hush of chores finishing, the anticipation of a shared meal. He closed his eyes, letting the music paint scenes in his mind: children running over grass, an older couple resting on a porch step, the sky tinted with the last color of day.

For a few minutes, the tune swayed between gentle phrases, rising then falling like a breath. When Riona finally lowered the flute, the sound lingered in the air, as if reluctant to disperse. Arthon opened his eyes, feeling both a hint of sadness that the music had ended and a curious elation at having witnessed it.

"That was beautiful," he said, voice hushed. "It feels like a lullaby for the dusk. Thank you."

Riona smiled, carefully rewrapping the flute. "It's one of my favorites—nothing grand, just a small piece of memory kept alive through repetition. Most people have never heard it, and one day, it might fade entirely. But I try to keep it traveling as long as I can."

"Do you ever write them down?" Arthon asked, recalling how the calligrapher had turned words into visual art.

Riona shook her head. "I prefer the fluidity of an oral tradition. The tunes shift slightly each time they're played, depending on the place, the mood, the moment. Writing them down might fix them in place, and then they'd lose their ability to adapt. I suspect your poetry is similar—growing as you journey, changing with every new encounter."

Arthon nodded thoughtfully. "That's true. I keep scattered notes, but they're only sketches. The final shape, if there even is one, shifts with me. I've thought about how sometimes the lines I wrote weeks ago don't feel quite right now. But perhaps that's the nature of a living art—it's never set in stone."

They fell quiet again, listening to the stream's steady murmuring. Sunlight sparkled off the water's surface, casting wavering reflections onto the willow branches overhead. Arthon jotted a few words on a scrap of parchment:

Melody drifting through green willows,

Carried by footsteps on the winding road,

A tune that never settles—

Words suspended in passing light.

He wasn't sure if these lines would remain as they were, but they captured the day's essence: the ephemeral nature of story and song. Once he finished, he tucked the parchment away and met Riona's gaze. They shared a faint smile of understanding.

"Where are you headed?" Riona asked.

"Nowhere in particular," Arthon admitted. "I've been wandering for weeks—months, maybe. Each meeting, each place, offers a new facet of the poem I'm trying to shape."

Riona tilted her head. "Then perhaps you're like me. The journey is the story. I have no permanent home, but I don't feel homeless. Every road is a chapter, every stop a page."

Arthon felt a gentle stirring in his chest, a resonance with her words. Indeed, he had come to realize that his poem was less a fixed object than a continual process—something that transformed as he did, shaped by each sunrise and every conversation. He wondered if, one day, he would sense the poem was 'complete,' or if it would simply accompany him all his life, as organic and shifting as the tunes Riona kept alive.

The afternoon sun arced across the sky, lengthening shadows along the bank. Eventually, Riona picked up her pack. "I should move on," she said gently. "There's a small market town a day's walk from here. People gather at dusk to share songs, trade goods, exchange news. I like to catch those gatherings—stories abound. You're welcome to join me if you wish."

Arthon considered. The offer was tempting; a bustling market town might yield a trove of experiences. Yet he felt a subtle pull in another direction, an inner sense that he needed some solitude to integrate all he had absorbed over recent days. "I appreciate the invitation," he said. "But I think I'll remain here a while longer. There's something about this stream and these willows that calls for a bit more reflection. Perhaps we'll cross paths again."

Riona nodded, as though she understood perfectly. "Safe travels to you, poet. May your lines find their melody in the rhythms of the road."

They shared a brief handshake, a fleeting connection of hands that felt like a pact of mutual respect. Then Riona slung her bundle over her shoulder and made her way along the stream, eventually disappearing around a bend. Her footsteps faded, replaced once more by the subtle percussion of running water.

Alone again, Arthon remained on the flat rock. He closed his eyes and replayed the flute's melody in his mind, hearing how it rose and fell, how it lingered just on the cusp of silence. It reminded him that words, too, could hover in suspension—unfixed, receptive to each new influence. He felt the old stirrings of urgency to write, but this time, he resisted. Instead, he let the place speak first, the rustle of willows and the quiet rush of water forming a natural lullaby for the midday.

When he finally stood, the sun had shifted far enough overhead that the shadows beneath the willows had grown longer. He stretched, feeling a gentle ache in his legs and back, a reminder of how far he had traveled. He thought of the vantage point he had left that morning, of Garrin and the wide horizon, of the potter's careful hands, of Sella's lullaby, of the fisherman's patient line. Each memory was like a thread weaving into the tapestry of his poem. Riona's flute melody had joined them, a soft binding that hinted at the ephemeral but potent power of shared experiences.

Perhaps, he mused, this was the penultimate stage of his wandering—an unspoken sign that he was nearing a place where all these fragments might coalesce. He didn't know what shape that place would take: whether it was a return to his old village or a new settlement that felt like home. But he sensed that with every step, he carried his unformed poem closer to a moment of gentle culmination.

Gathering his belongings, Arthon stepped back onto the winding path. He didn't know if the road would lead him to a bustling market, another peaceful hilltop, or a hidden cove along a different river. But he trusted that, wherever he went, the words of his poem would accompany him, living and changing as he did. And as he walked away from the stream, letting the hush of the breeze and the echoes of Riona's flute guide his stride, he felt a quiet certainty that the next bend in his journey might bring him closer than ever to the poem's quiet heart.