Mirea and the Name in the Silence

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The morning had been born quietly, without the birdsong, without the rippling of the fountain that had been there yesterday. Mirea walked barefoot across the fine, pale sand that felt like the dust of old thoughts. It was as if someone had repainted the world, but only in delicate tones of gray and silver. No wind, no rustling, only the steady crunch of her footsteps—and her breath, lost in the silence. She didn't know why she had left, only that she had to. The door in the sand through which she had once stepped lay far behind her. Before her lay a place that wasn't quite a place—more of a feeling, spread across the plain. Her eyes burned, not from tiredness, but because she sensed that something was about to happen that only she could hear. In the middle of the emptiness lay a single stone. Smooth, oval, shimmering like something long remembered. She picked it up. At that same moment, the air seemed to thicken, like the moment before a word. Something whispered—not with sounds, but with meaning. And although no one spoke, she understood it. "I was a name." Mirea blinked. A circle of mirrors suddenly rose before her, grown from nothing, frameless, old. They stood like sentinels in the sand, each slightly tilted, as if listening. But they showed no reflection. Instead, words flickered within them. Some danced like smoke, others stood firm like carved symbols on old wood. She stepped closer. In one mirror was a sentence that struck her deeply: "I no longer remember myself." Another whispered: "You carried me when I still knew no language." And then she stood before the last mirror. It was empty. But right there, it happened. From the center of the circle, a soft sound rose—like the moment when snow falls and no one is looking. And that sound was a name. Not Mirea. Another. An older one. One she didn't know, but who remembered her. It vibrated through her heart, through her bones, through who she was long before she could describe herself. She closed her eyes. Her childhood flickered, a voice she had once called Mama, a laugh she had long forgotten. And in between: the name. Whispering, true, hers—and yet foreign. When she opened her eyes again, the circle had disappeared. The sand was still again. The stone in her hand glowed softly, and on its surface was now a small depression—not like an inscription, more like an echo. No letter, no sign, and yet she knew: Here lay something that could only be heard. A piece of paper lay at her feet. It was dry, even though no rain had fallen. On it was written only a single sentence: "If you ever need me again—call me by the name no one knows." She folded the piece of paper, tucked it into the pocket of her dress, and started back, even though there was none. Her footsteps left no trace. But something was different. The silence was no longer empty. It was a space. A space in which she now had a place.