The Path in the Broken Egg

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The wanderer had seen many paths, rocky passes, mist-shrouded valleys, bridges made of silk and wood. But never before had he stood before a gate like this one. Two enormous shells rose up, as if an ancient egg had shattered, tearing a fissure in the center of the world. Between the cracks, a path shone, illuminated by both sun and stars. With his hood lowered, he approached. The ground beneath his feet was warm, as if the stone itself had a heart beating to the rhythm of time. On the left, a tree rustled in the wind, lush green and full of leaves, a song of summer and promise. On the right, however, stood a barren, gnarled trunk, its branches stretching like fingers toward a starry sky, deep black and sparkling. Life and death, day and night, beginning and end—both simultaneously visible in this strange shell. The wanderer knew that this place appeared only to those who lingered too long between decisions. Every step on the path demanded a commitment. Would he go into the brightness, where warmth and blossoms awaited? Or into the darkness, where the silence of the stars beckoned, revealing the mystery of all transience? He paused. In the silence, he heard something whisper. Not with words, but like a distant sound rising from the cracks in the shell. He sensed this was no ordinary place. It was the egg of the world, and every person carried an invisible piece of it within. Some took a lifetime to break the shell. Others never made it. "Where do you want to go?" asked the tree to the left, its voice a whisper of leaves. "Do you want to grow, spread, bloom, and stand in the sun?" "Or do you seek depth?" asked the tree to the right, its voice an echo of the stars. "Do you want to know what lies beyond the shadows, where everything fades and yet endures?" The wanderer slowly raised his head. His eyes reflected both the sun and the starry sky. He felt he had to choose—but not as the voices demanded. He stepped further into the center, where the light of the sunset and the blackness of the night merged. Each step crunched over the broken pavement, and the path began to glow, as if recognizing his guest's determination. "I go neither into the one nor the other," said the wanderer. "I am a child of the middle. For without night there is no morning, without an end there is no beginning." Then the shell trembled. The green tree and the bare tree both bowed, as if acknowledging each other. A wind arose, and suddenly the broken egg seemed to close—not by erasing the cracks, but by uniting the opposites. The broken edges transformed into an arch, a gateway that was simultaneously day and night, becoming and passing away, a circle without beginning or end.