Berry Pie — The Sweet Reconciler
"Spiritual strength lies in overcoming oneself, both inside and out.
And only by continuing the path do you truly begin to grow..."
In a lonely dawn among the mountain rocks lived a young sapling. Its roots trembled with fear before the stony brow of the hill; every day it stretched toward the light through impenetrable walls of debris.
One day, a local eagle descended and whispered: "Your strength is not in how you grow above the rocks, but in how you weave your roots into narrow cracks, shattering the stone drop by drop of soil. This path is an inner battle with doubts and an outer struggle with an impassable world."
The sapling resolved itself. Its roots penetrated the crevices, absorbing the bitter moisture of rains and the warmth of the sun. Day by day, it rose higher, pushing aside the barrier. And when its green branches rustled above the rock, it understood: "Where fear bred stone, I built a bridge to the sky."
So too does a person, changing themselves inside and out, step by step create their own path.
The night refused to spend time with me—as if I were stricken with leprosy. After the conversation with my mother and the princess, thoughts swirled in my head like autumn leaves before a storm. The night stretched like an endless thread that clings to every sharp corner of the soul, and longing rolled in waves—receding, then returning. Why can't I learn my father's name? After all, it's the simplest truth—every child should know where they came from, accepting it like air or sunlight. For me, though—it's a mystery sealed with seven seals, a secret more guarded than the capital's defense plans. Is my mother's tongue bound by invisible chains of some curse? Or did my father inflict such a deep wound on her that merely mentioning his name makes old scars bleed—a wound as deep as an abyss where light doesn't reach?
It's unlikely she doesn't remember his name. A woman always remembers the one who left a piece of himself in her—even if that piece grew into such a misunderstanding as me. The truth lies in one of my assumptions that I invented for myself, staring at the ceiling as if answers were carved there. Either a prohibition or pain—there's no third option.
This uncertainty follows me like a shadow. Who am I without my father's name? Half a person? An empty shell that the wind chases through the streets? Curiosity gnaws at me like a hungry dog on a bone. What if the truth turns out worse than the emptiness? What if his name isn't a key to understanding, but a stone that drags me to the bottom?