(continued from previous scroll)
The colonnade was empty.
For the first time in five mornings, the courtyard felt larger. I stood for a while at its edge, where the pillars met the garden path, half expecting to hear Daniel’s voice rise from the shade. But the silence of his absence lingered—broken only by the rustle of vines and the soft buzz of bees around a cluster of white-flowered myrtle.
A servant passed by with a water jug and nodded politely. When I asked after Daniel, he smiled. “The elder rests today. No visitors.”
I found myself drifting toward the edge of the scribes’ quarter, unsure of what to do with the hours. The rhythm of these mornings had settled into me more quickly than I realized. Now that it had paused, I felt strangely adrift.
Eventually, I made my way to the upper terrace overlooking the Kabaru. The water shimmered in the early sun, and a handful of fishermen were drawing nets by hand. A small group of children ran along the stones chasing a lizard, their shrieks of delight echoing faintly over the water.
I sat with my feet dangling over the edge and removed my stylus from its pouch—not to write, but simply to hold it. I thought about the tree in Daniel’s dream, the one that was cut down and bound with iron. What becomes of a stump once it is sealed from growth? Can it remember being a tree?
The stillness of the sixth day asked no questions and offered no answers. But it allowed thoughts to settle—like silt in a jar—until what remained was clear, or at least clearer.
Late in the afternoon, I walked through the market square. An old woman selling figs offered me one for free. “For the one who listens,” she said cryptically, though I did not know if she meant me or someone else.
That evening, as the oil lamps were lit one by one across the temple ward, I returned to my quarters and opened my scrolls. I did not add to them. I simply read them again.
Daniel’s words felt heavier in stillness, as if their meaning had deepened without him speaking a single new sentence.
There would be no meeting tomorrow. But today, I rested. Not in idleness, but in attention.