Legend CIII – The Spring That Remembered

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Deep within the rock's core, where the stone remained cool even in the hottest summers and the light only hesitantly filtered through narrow openings, lay a spring older than any prayer ever offered to it. Its water sprang not only from the rock but also from time, and it flowed with a patience known only to those who have nothing to prove. In the cavern sat a nymph, a spring nymph of the ancient order, long before they began to be called Naiads, with hair like muted gold and eyes in which water gathered like memory. Her body was light, almost translucent in the twilight, and yet it was bound to this place, not as a punishment, but as a promise. She was not a guardian in the human sense; she forbade nothing, she demanded nothing; she was the memory of the spring itself. Three stone lion heads ceaselessly spewed water from their open mouths, not out of anger, but out of duty, and the murmur of their stream was the steady breath of the cave. The nymph knew every drop that fell. She knew which waters came from the previous night's rain and which had wandered through the rock for centuries. Everything this water touched left a trace, invisible but lasting. Hands that washed, mouths that drank, bodies that sought solace in the coolness, tears that no one was meant to see—all this became part of the spring, and the nymph preserved it without judgment. In times when people still knew that water listened, they brought offerings, not out of fear, but out of gratitude. They whispered her name, which she herself had since forgotten, and asked not for wealth, but for clarity. Later came different times. The paths changed, the forests thinned, and people forgot how to be still. Many springs dried up because no one remained to honor them. This one, however, remained. Not because it was protected, but because it was necessary. The nymph sensed when someone approached long before footsteps reached the cave. The water changed its sound, becoming more restless or calmer, depending on what the visitor brought. Most saw only a spring in a cave, cool and clear, a place to rest. They drank and moved on, and the water carried them away. But sometimes someone stopped, sat on the damp stone, and looked not at the spring, but into it. For them, something opened. Memories long buried rose like warm steam, not painful, but inescapable. Decisions never spoken took shape, not as accusations, but as truth. The nymph did not speak. She had never needed to. The spring itself spoke. Not in words, but in images, in feelings, in the quiet knowing that arises when you stop lying to yourself. Some couldn't bear it. They jumped up, fled the cave as if summoned. Others stayed until the water grew still, leaving the place changed, not relieved, but clarified. The nymph knew that she, too, would not remain forever.