CHAPTER 8:The Poet Who Saw Without Eyes

In a quiet village at the edge of the world, where the rivers whispered secrets and the wind carried forgotten songs, there lived a poet.

He had no name, or if he did, it had long been lost to time. Most simply called him The Blind Seer, though those who truly knew him understood—he was not blind at all.

He never stumbled, never reached out in hesitation. He walked with the confidence of one who saw more than just shapes and colors.

Some believed he had been born that way. Others swore he had traded his sight for wisdom. But if you asked him, he would only smile and say,

"I see more than most, and less than some. And that is enough."

The Language of the Unseen

The poet spoke in verses.

Not because he wished to sound profound, but because he could not help it. His thoughts wove themselves into rhythm and rhyme, like the universe itself whispered its truths through him.

At dawn, he would sit by the river and let his hands drift over the water, as if feeling the echoes of lives long past. At night, he would trace the stars with his fingers, as though reading a book no one else could see.

People sought him out. Not for wealth or power, but for the thing men feared most—the truth.

"Will I find love?" a woman once asked.

The poet had only smiled. "You will, when you stop searching in others and start listening to your own heart."

"Will my child grow strong?" a father pleaded.

The poet dipped his fingers into the river and whispered, "Like the water, he will shape his own path. Do not fear where it leads."

Yet, for all the wisdom he gave others, he himself was waiting.

For what, he did not know.

Until the night the shadows spoke back.

The Whisper in the Dark

It began as a ripple in the air. A hush in the wind.

Then, as the moon climbed higher, a voice bloomed inside his mind.

"You have sung the songs of others long enough."

The poet stilled.

"It is time to sing your own."

A shiver passed through him—not of fear, but of knowing.

For years, he had spoken of roads yet traveled, doors yet opened.

But this? This was his road. His door.

The Invitation of Fate

That night, he stood at the river's edge, listening.

And for the first time, the water did not speak. The wind did not guide. The stars did not whisper.

There was only silence.

Not an absence, but a presence. A waiting.

With a slow breath, the poet turned from the village he had always known. He did not need to see the path ahead.

It had already been written in the unseen.

And so, he followed the call.