The morning breeze swept softly through the bell tree's branches, scattering golden dust of light across the clearing. The sage watched the boy as he packed his small bundle, bare feet against the cool, dew-laced earth.
"Hmmm…" the sage murmured, brushing his long white beard. "But where are you going, little one?"
The boy turned, his face calm but eyes distant. "To find where humans live," he said. "Someone told me if I go down this road, I'll find them."
The sage smiled faintly, a thin curve that carried both warmth and weariness. "That will be better for you," he said softly. "Then go that way. You'll find them surely."
The boy nodded. "Thank you," he said, bowing slightly. Then hesitated. "Can you tell me… where does this path end?"
Before he could finish, the sage raised a hand, gently placing his palm near the boy's face. "Don't ask that," he said in a quiet voice that sounded almost like wind through old reeds. "When someone tells you to go, then go. When your feet begin to move, that path already belongs to you. You see, this road—" he looked down at the trail curling through the trees, half shadow and half sun—"is one-way. No turning back. Along it, you'll see many beautiful things. Just enjoy them. When those beautiful things end… then you'll find what you're looking for."
The boy frowned, thinking. "But what if they never end? What if… like before, I fall into illusions again loops that never stop? What happens then?"
The sage chuckled softly. "You are a clever one," he said, eyes gleaming like two small mirrors of the dawn. "But even if you do, it doesn't matter. Still, at the end, you'll find that path. Because this is a one-way journey. You're not coming back here, at least, not now."
The boy's voice became smaller. "Your words… they sound like someone I used to know. But I can't remember who." He paused, looking up towards lonely road. "Can't you help me? Give me a hint, something to find that road faster?"
The sage smiled, but his smile was heavy. "I can," he said. "But I don't want to. Everyone has the right to choose their own path, and to discover it through their own feet. I'm not a guide, not anymore. My work is to sit here and watch the travellers pass."
He plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. "Think before you walk," he said. "You never know where a road might lead you. This world holds countless roads, each with its own taste, its own grief, its own light. And every traveller thinks theirs is the only one that matters."
The boy crouched near the roots, listening. "So every path takes us to a different place?"
"Yes," the sage said, nodding. "Different places, different endings. Sometimes to paradise, sometimes to dust. Sometimes back to where you started, but with different eyes."
The boy smiled faintly. "That sounds interesting… and boring."
The sage laughed. "Why boring?"
The boy picked up a pebble and rolled it in his palm. "If I could see all of those paths, all at once, I might enjoy it, or be sad. But since I can't, I have to choose one and miss the others. So it's interesting because I can wonder about them… and boring because I'll never know with the pass of time."
The sage leaned back against the tree trunk, gazing at the slanting light. "That's life," he said. "Life gives you many choices, but only one pair of feet. Every choice you make, every road you walk, makes the others fade into smoke. You might look back and see their shadows, but smoke doesn't stay. Even if you try to grab it, it slips through your fingers and becomes part of the air."
The boy stared at the smoke rising from the sage's small firepit. "So… even the wrong roads become part of the air?"
The sage smiled, eyes narrowing. "Even the wrong roads. They shape the air you breathe next. There are no wasted journeys, only lessons you don't yet understand."
The boy's gaze softened, and he bowed deeply. "Then I'll choose carefully," he said.
"Don't just choose carefully," the sage said, closing his eyes. "Choose bravely. Even a wrong path walked with courage can lead to truth. But the right path, walked with fear, leads nowhere."
The silence that followed was deep and calm, broken only by the rustle of the bell tree. The boy's stomach growled faintly, and he laughed a little, embarrassed.
The sage stood, smiling. "Take some of those fruits," he said, knocking a few loose from the branches with a small stone. "They'll keep you from feeling hunger for a while."
The boy caught them and placed them carefully in his small bag. "Thank you, Sage. But can I took more?"
The sage laughed suddenly, his voice echoing through the quiet grove. "They are not mine anyway," he said, waving a wrinkled hand toward the tree. "Why should I stop you? Take as many as you want."
The boy grinned. "Thank you!" he said, picking up a few stones and tossing them up carefully, trying not to hit the sage sitting cross-legged below. Each throw missed its mark or struck a branch but failed to dislodge a single fruit. The sage chuckled as the boy's frustration grew.
"Why not just climb the tree?" the sage said, raising an eyebrow.
The boy scratched his hair sheepishly. "Ahh… that would be better, yes. Thank you."
In a few moments, he climbed the old trunk, his small limbs moving quickly and sure. He plucked six fruits, tucking them gently into his cloth bag before climbing down.
"Why," the sage asked, smiling, "did you fail to bring down even one with your stones?"
The boy looked at the tree, then at the fruits still hanging high above. He frowned, thinking. "It's like they didn't want to fall," he said finally. "As if… they were waiting for the right hand to pick them."
The sage's smile deepened, eyes half-closed. "A good answer," he said quietly. "Sometimes what we seek won't come by force. They fall when they wish, when they find the one meant to hold them."
The boy tilted his head, not entirely understanding, but nodded anyway. He turned toward the hill, his eyes widening at the sight that spread before him. "Ah… it's beautiful," he whispered. "The flowers, the trees, look --- deer!" His voice was full of wonder, as though he had never seen such peace before. "What a beautiful land this is."
The sage leaned on his staff and followed his gaze. "What are you seeing?"
The boy blinked, lowering his voice. "An illusion," he said after a pause. "Or maybe… someone's controlling my mind to make me see them."
The sage chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You answer like someone who has seen much more than his years should allow. But no, child, it's not an illusion, and no one is controlling you. This…" He spread his hand across the horizon. "…is how the path of hell looks."
The boy froze. "What?" he whispered.
"Yes," the sage said calmly. "Even hell wears beauty at times. Every horror in this world once hid behind something beautiful."
The boy's face darkened. "Then… why did that place look so different? The one I came from—it was scary, filled with inhuman sounds, brutal things. I saw…" His voice trembled as the memory clawed back. "A skeleton with a lantern, standing near the bank of that red river, throwing animals into it. And others, others were being thrown into a white river. The screams…"
Before he could finish, the sage's expression changed. He raised a trembling hand. "Ahh, stop. Stop." He stepped closer and pressed a finger against the boy's lips. "Forget what you saw, forget what you heard. Those rivers… they are not for your tongue to speak of."
The boy blinked in confusion. "But why? I already saw them. Shouldn't I understand what I saw?"
The sage sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. "Because some truths are not for understanding, they are for surviving. When you try to describe the darkness too deeply, it begins to live again inside your words." He looked into the boy's eyes. "Even I cannot carry such memories for long."
The boy frowned, then smiled slyly. "Then why are you acting like a child?"
The sage chuckled, eyes lighting up. "And why aren't you asking me why I didn't tell you more?"
The boy's grin faded. "Because I think I already know. You want me to find the answers myself."
"Exactly," the sage said. "The more I tell you, the less you'll see. The world changes when you walk through it on your own. A guided path is only half a journey."
The boy nodded slowly, looking down at his hands. "So, some roads must be walked without questions."
"Indeed," said the sage, looking at the rippling grass. "And some must be forgotten even after you've walked them. Not all memories are treasures. Some are burdens disguised as lessons."
The boy lowered his gaze to the soil, pressing his bare toes into the earth. "Then what should I do with such memories?"
"Let them rot," the sage said gently. "Like fallen fruit. In time, they'll turn to soil, and new understanding will grow from them."
The wind blew softly between them. The boy looked up, seeing petals floating through the air like snow.
He asked after a pause, "Will this road also become one of those forgotten paths?"
The sage smiled wistfully. "All roads are forgotten, child. Only the footprints remain, until even the wind carries those away."
The sage rested his chin on his hand, studying the boy with eyes that seemed older than the mountains behind them. The sunlight fell through the bell tree leaves, drawing soft patterns over their faces.
He gave a small, sheepish grin, the kind that children give when they think they've said something profound. The sage laughed softly, a deep, warm laugh that carried years of silence within it. "A pookie smile," he said teasingly. "But a clever one."
Then, more quietly, he asked, "Tell me, little boy, do you know why this place looks so beautiful, even though the road behind you leads straight from the jaws of hell?"
The boy looked around him again, the swaying flowers, the soft blue sky, the grass glittering with dew. He hesitated. "No," he said, "but I think… they are trying to make us fall into illusion."
The sage leaned back, eyes half-lidded in approval. "Somewhat true," he said. "But tell me, who are they? Why do they want us to fall into illusion? Why does illusion work?"
The boy bit his lip, thinking hard, his small brows furrowing. "I don't know," he admitted softly. "But I'll find them."
The sage smiled faintly. "Remember, little one, hell is not only a place of torment. It is the place where one's sin and virtue are measured, the balance of what we gave and what we took. That place is deeper than you can ever describe."
He pointed down the long road of light that stretched beyond the hills. "Those whom you call they built this path. They knew how hell truly looks, so they made the road beautiful. They knew that if the road looked like the horror beyond it, no one would walk willingly toward truth. So they built beauty to deceive, to test."
The sage looked up at the trembling leaves. "They make us believe hell will be even more beautiful than this road."
The boy frowned, thinking, then his eyes lit up with a strange understanding. "But… I saw hell first. So now I see the beauty for what it really is. Not illusion, but recovery. Isn't that strange?"
The sage laughed softly, clapping his hands once. "Ah! What a twist of life indeed. You are one of the few who walked backward through illusion and came out smiling."
The boy chuckled shyly. "Thank you for telling me all this. But… can you tell me something else?"
The sage raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"Who are they who come here to count sin and virtue? What is sin, what is virtue? How do they look? Who counts them, and how? Which one is more important — sin or virtue? Are they both real, or are they illusions too? Maybe both are the same, and we just… misunderstand them. Or maybe—"
The sage raised his hand and laughed, stopping him gently. "Enough, enough. You have an ocean of questions and the waves are rising faster than I can swim." He sighed deeply, gazing into the sunlight. "You remind me of myself… long ago."
He lifted his hand toward the sun, fingers trembling with age but spirit unbroken. "I never saw them," he said softly. "But I wanted to. I wanted to feel their presence, to ask them all these things. I too am a wanderer like you, only now, I am too tired to walk. My legs gave up, my body grew heavy, so I sit here by this road, and let the wind pass where my feet once did."
His voice turned almost to a whisper. "If I had seen them, those who judge sin and virtue — I would have walked to them and asked every question you now carry. But I didn't. Perhaps I was not meant to."
The boy listened in silence, a sadness forming in his chest.
The sage smiled again, faintly. "So when your journey ends, when you grow tired and your feet can no longer carry your questions, come here again. Sit where I sit now, and tell me what you found."
The boy blinked and then smiled, though his voice was soft. "But I haven't even started my journey yet, and you're already talking about its end."
The sage laughed heartily, his laughter echoing between the trees. "There are two truths no one can deny," he said. "One, your journey began the moment you were born. And two, it will end one day, no matter how far or fast you walk. No one can stop it. That is the rule of the world."
The boy looked startled. "So, the end is already written?"
"In some way, yes," said the sage. "But the meaning of that journey, that is what you must write yourself. You cannot change the road's end, but you can carve what lies between."
The boy looked down, tracing patterns in the dirt with a small stick. "Then I'll find them. The ones who made the roads. The ones who count sin and virtue. I'll find them… if I don't forget."
The sage's eyes softened. "Forgetting is part of remembering," he said gently. "When you forget, life gives you room to discover the same truth again, but deeper."
The wind passed through, scattering a few yellow petals. The boy watched them dance in the air before settling on the grass. "Maybe that's why this road feels so calm now," he whispered. "Like it's waiting for me to remember something I once knew."
The sage nodded, then said quietly, "Every road remembers its traveller. That's why we return to certain places, not because they call us, but because we left something behind when we last walked there."
The boy looked up, his eyes wide and thoughtful. "Then what did you leave behind, Sage?"
The old man smiled wistfully. "A question," he said simply. "A question I never answered. It sits here still, among these roots and these fruits. Waiting for someone braver than me."
The boy bowed his head. "Maybe I'll find your answer too."
The sage reached out and patted his shoulder. "Perhaps you will. But answers are not prizes, little boy. They are burdens dressed as gifts. Carry them lightly."
The boy nodded softly.
The sun had risen higher now. The light grew golden and spilled across the field. The boy stood, brushing dust from his clothes, but instead of walking, he turned to gaze once more at the shimmering horizon.
He said. "I just want to admire this beautiful place a little longer."
The sage nodded, closing his eyes. "Then admire it well,"
The boy said nothing more. He simply sat there beside the sage, under the bell tree, his heart quiet, his thoughts wandering like clouds. And in that stillness, in that soft hour between day and memory, he found something....
.............................
The boy wanted to say something more, but his eyes suddenly drifted behind the sage, toward a cluster of trees where something caught his attention. Between the tall roots and moss-covered trunks, something seemed to be peeking at them. He blinked, trying to focus. It wasn't a person, it looked like the edge of a carved face, half-hidden in shadow.
Curiosity got the better of him. He stepped past the old man and walked toward the tree. As he came closer, he realized it wasn't just one face, there were dozens. Wooden idols of every shape and size were resting against roots, branches, and stones. Some were cracked and hollowed by termites, others were crawling with lines of ants. But a few still looked newly carved—fresh wood chips, sawdust, and the faint scent of resin surrounded them like perfume.
The man in orange robes followed the boy's curious eyes and smiled. He extended a wrinkled hand toward the sculptures.
"Ahh… they are my handwork," he said gently. "When my thoughts are too loud, I carve them. When I am lonely, I carve them. When I feel peace, I carve them again. Are they good?"
The boy crouched, running his fingers along one of the faces. He found idols of animals, fish, men, women, demons, gods, some abstract, some lifelike, all carrying strange emotions.
"They're curved so beautifully," the boy said in wonder. "How did you carve them like this?"
The sage chuckled. "By different tools," he replied. "Sometimes with the knife, sometimes with the mind."
The boy frowned and pointed at two nearby idols. "These two look the same, but one is smiling and the other looks… angry. And these here, two identical statues, but bent differently."
He hesitated, then touched two smaller figures near the corner. "And these faces… these two. I feel like I've seen them before, but I can't remember where. They look so familiar. Do they have names?"
The sage, who had been watching in silence, let a small, knowing smile curl on his lips. He brushed a thin layer of dust off the nearest idol, the air around them shimmering faintly in the sunbeam that fell through the cracks in the temple's ceiling.
"Of course they have names," he said softly, his voice like an echo of time itself. He picked up the calm-faced statue first and held it up to the light. "This one, the serene one, the one whose smile feels like silence itself, that is Buddha."
Then, gently but deliberately, he turned to the fierce one, its expression frozen between wrath and sorrow. "And this," the sage said, "this one who glares as if every shadow were his enemy—that is Mara. They were the first to fight, and the first to see beyond the fight. The first to fall into truth, and the first to rise as the enlightened."
The boy blinked, confused. "But… how can a demon become enlightened? You said both are enlightened ones. How can that be? Isn't enlightenment for the pure?"
The sage laughed under his breath. "There are many questions like that, little one. I can't answer them all, not because I don't want to, but because my words might become your walls. Some truths are meant to be walked into, not told. Why not find them in your journey? It will be better for both of us."
The boy pouted. "You're not answering anything! I'm the one foolishly asking questions all the time."
He folded his arms. "Humph."
The sage laughed more openly now, his voice carrying across the trees. "Alright, alright. Don't get angry, young wanderer. Let me tell you something instead."
He turned the Mara idol in his palm, letting sunlight dance on its carved edges. "When you wake up one day and say you want to find truth, the world itself begins to test you. If I give you the answers, you'll never find your own path. You'll only follow my footprints, and that's not truth, it's imitation."
He looked at the boy kindly. "You said this road was beautiful, didn't you?"
The boy nodded. "Yes… it was strange even after beautiful."
The sage nodded slowly. "Then imagine this: if you had known in advance what this path was like—if you had seen every shadow, every illusion, would you have still chosen to walk it?"
The boy thought for a moment. "Maybe not," he admitted. "If I knew it would be so beautiful, maybe I would have come much before."
"Exactly," the sage said. "If you had known, you would have come very quickly. And because of that, we would never have met. There would be no talk between us, no idols, no questions. Sometimes ignorance is the first blessing of truth, it lets you take the first step."
The boy looked up, a faint smile crossing his face. "You're right. If I knew, I would have avoided this path. But now that I've walked it, even with all its illusions… I feel it was beautiful. Maybe that's the strange part. The pain, the confusion, it all looks beautiful now."
The sage closed his eyes for a moment, the corners of his lips softening into a peaceful grin. "That's because you've begun to see. The beauty doesn't lie in the path, little boy, it lies in the eyes that walked it. Illusion and truth are not two different lands; they're two sides of the same mirror. What you call illusion now may be truth waiting for your next understanding."
The boy sat beside him, gazing at the carved idols again. "Do you think illusion ever ends?"
The sage chuckled. "Perhaps when there's no one left to see it," he said. "But even then, who can say whether it ends or just changes its name?"
He picked up a small wooden fish and handed it to the boy. "Take this. Whenever you feel lost, remember this fish swims in both water and illusion, it knows no difference. You, too, must learn to swim through your questions."
The boy held the carving carefully. "Do you ever get tired of carving illusions?"
The sage looked at the horizon, his orange robes glowing like the dying sun. "Every day. But then I remember, if I stop carving, who will remind the wind that wood once had life?"
The boy stared at him, uncertain whether to laugh or to ponder. "You started to speak in riddles again."
The sage smiled, eyes twinkling. "Maybe. Or maybe riddles are just truths wearing masks."
A silence fell between them with the rustle of trees, the distant cry of birds, the smell of sawdust and sun-warmed bark.
After a long while, the boy said quietly, "It's strange… you talk like you've already found the truth, yet you still carve, still sit here, still search."
The sage chuckled softly. "Even the ocean looks calm, but beneath it, the currents never stop moving. Finding truth doesn't end the search, it changes the direction of it."
To be continued...