Symphony of Fragments

You stand in the darkness, as if facing a phone call that will never connect. The city is loud, yet none of its sounds answer you.

You reach your hand toward a thin white line—and suddenly, a clear chime falls, as if someone in the distance were softly saying, “I’m here.” You raise your hand higher; the dialing grows more urgent, rings of light expand outward like an anxious heartbeat, like your repeated calls to yourself.

Then the boundaries begin to dissolve. Shapes soften, colors disperse like mist. The distance between you and others, between you and yourself, melts into the same field of faint light.

Later, you hear a parable: three sons compete to fill a room with the smallest thing possible, and the one who lights a candle wins—because light has no form, yet it can occupy everything. In that moment, you understand: those nameless, monstrous presences were never enemies, but feelings you had long ignored.

Your perspective is lifted, as if pulled into the sky. From above, lives flow like grains of sand. When you open your arms, vortices form and spread. When you raise your hand, gems scatter outward, colliding and releasing brief flashes of their own light. When you move your palm, the world rotates along slices of time—rough or smooth, warm or cold—each becoming a texture you can almost touch.

At last, you return to the sea. The greater the distance between your hands, the faster the waves surge, and the more thoroughly memory is washed away.

Within the sound of the ocean, only one sentence remains—asking you, and waiting for your reply:

“In what form do you wish to remain in this world?”