He has forgotten the melody of his hometown.
•
So he tells a story.
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A story about a giant oak tree.
A story about the wind that carried the scent of pine.
A story about mockingbirds singing in the morning.
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There was a small hut beside a river.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing important.
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At least not to anyone else.
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The fish were plentiful there.
So plentiful that he never needed a fishing rod.
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He would place a woven straw basket into the water.
And wait.
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Soon enough—
the fish would leap inside on their own.
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That was home.
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A place he left long ago.
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A place that continued without him.
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He looks down at the flute resting in his hands.
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Old wood.
Worn smooth by time.
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A flute from his village.
A flute he carried across mountains, forests, deserts, and seas.
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Yet he never played it.
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Not once.
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Because he was afraid.
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Afraid that the melody would be wrong.
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Afraid that he would remember.
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Or worse—
that he would not.
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Years passed.
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Then decades.
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Then more.
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Until one day—
he realized he could no longer remember how it was supposed to sound.
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The melody of his village had faded.
Not suddenly.
Not all at once.
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Like footprints disappearing beneath rain.
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He sits beneath an oak tree.
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Not the oak tree.
•
Just an oak tree.
•
The bark feels different.
The leaves sound different.
•
There is no scent of pine here.
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The birds sing songs he does not recognize.
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He lifts the flute.
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And begins to play.
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Not the melody of his hometown.
•
That song is gone.
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Instead—
he plays a melody learned elsewhere.
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A melody gathered from distant roads.
From forgotten ruins.
From strangers whose names have already vanished.
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A melody about an immortal.
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Not an immortal who died in battle.
Not one consumed by fire.
Not one slain by gods.
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An immortal who lived so long
that eventually nobody remembered him.
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His enemies forgotten.
His friends forgotten.
His deeds forgotten.
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Until only he remained.
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A witness with no audience.
A story with no listener.
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The song drifts into the wind.
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The birds fall silent.
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The oak tree does not answer.
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The river continues to flow.
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And somewhere within the melody—
for only a moment—
he thinks he hears it.
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A single note.
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One note from home.
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He stops playing immediately.
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The silence that follows feels gentle.
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Not empty.
Not sad.
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Just distant.
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Like a place that still exists—
even if he can no longer find the road back to it.
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