As I was walking with the buckets, I remembered—in our kingdom, there's a myth that ancient trees are a gift from aliens, mysterious beings who planted them in time immemorial. Romantic, isn't it? I think it's a beautiful fairy tale for those who prefer ready-made answers to their own thoughts. Although, who knows? Perhaps somewhere in the universe there really are gardeners of cosmic proportions, and we are just one of their beds.
Gig trees grow only in the mountains—they thrive in the rarefied air of the heights, where the earthly touches the heavenly. Our country lies entirely among peaks, and these gnarled summits, like the remains of unearthly battles, have become a symbol of the kingdom. We use them prosaically in our homes—like natural toothbrushes sold worldwide. The irony: these potential gifts from heaven have become a hygiene product.
The true miracle begins when Giga juice mixes with mountain water. It's infused with magic, becoming a source of rapid restoration of mana and vital energy. One sip—and fatigue melts away, as if reborn. The royal family owns the best spring, while commoners make do with what flows down the other side of the mountain. Unfair? Of course. That's how the world works: some get the purest magic, others get the leftovers.
That's why we have the easiest time learning magic. We are a world of wizards, whether we like it or not. Access to resources does wonders for education, and we have the highest percentage of people with magical abilities on the continent.
Sitting by the spring, I looked at the flowing water, and thoughts began to flow. We used to come here with her. We laughed, made plans, shared secrets beneath these mountains. Time passed, like this water: pure, living, but with a bitter aftertaste—for all that is valuable requires choice.
Scooping up some water, I took a sip, feeling the chill in my throat and the awakening of my body. Such a simple thing, yet so powerful. Perhaps life truly lies in such small things—in a sip of water, in the rustle of the wind, in the memory of something that can never be regained?
Standing by the magical spring, I acutely felt the absurdity and beauty of existence. Every effort, every drop of sweat, every chuckle at my own helplessness—not accidents, but lines from a great poem of existence. These moments, simultaneously bittersweet, transform the mundane into the sublime, and a simple path into an allegory of choice.
The world around me shimmered with shades of paradox, where nature and magic, reality and myth merged. Tomorrow would bring a new day with new questions, but for now, it was just me, the path, and magic.
Returning home, I breathed in the mountain air, filled with a strange peace, understanding a simple truth: even the most banal action can open up vast spaces where every drop of water becomes a metaphor for renewal, and every stone a reminder of a person's encounter with himself.