Or perhaps he waits for someone like me—someone to sit in the wet grass and simply see . I gathered my courage and approached. Not quickly. Not with the loud confidence of a tourist. I walked the way one walks toward a sleeping wolf: softly, with respect for the dream.
He almost smiled. “You mistake the ruin for the thing ruined. The citadel is gone, yes. But the act of guarding—the choice to stay—that is not made of stone. That is made of will. And will does not erode.” I left him there as the mist began to thin and the first true stars appeared. I did not ask his name. Some names are better left in the fog. the ruins of mist and a lone swordsman
There is a particular kind of silence found only in ruins. It is not the silence of emptiness, but the silence of held breath. It is the sound of stone remembering the weight of walls, of archways grieving the shadows of doors that no longer exist. Or perhaps he waits for someone like me—someone
Twenty paces away, he spoke without turning. Not with the loud confidence of a tourist
And in that mist, I saw him.