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Simana’s Diaries – 19 –
first step. On the contrary, the path narrows; this is where the walker stops counting their steps and begins to weigh their burden.
Simana took her second step. These days were not measured by numbers, but by weight. The sun rose and set; the wind shifted direction; the camp remained in place. But the balance within Simana shifted to a different point every morning. She had learned to be silent, yes. But her silence was not yet deep enough. Because some sounds, when left unheard, turned into noise.
longer looked at the ash tree the way she used to. The trunk, which once seemed to her like a ladder reaching toward the sky, was now a test. There was a hesitation in the bark, fiber by fiber. When she touched it, the tree did not respond, yet it did not object either. Its branches did not point upward, nor did its roots call downward. It was as if the tree had stopped giving direction. It was waiting. And so was the sky…
Simana wandered through the village, but not by walking as he used to. His feet touched the ground, yet his mind did not follow his steps. People’s words struck her ears and fell to the ground; she took none of them in. The children’s laughter rose up; she caught one of them and placed it in her heart as if putting it in her pocket. The elders’ silence was heavy; she stood there, wanting nothing more. Because the first lesson had taught her this: Not everything belongs to you. Some things merely pass by and choose not to stay with you.
days passed like this… One night when the stars were plentiful, as Simana stepped out of the tent, the first thing he felt was the warmth of the earth. The memories the sun had kept hidden all day were now seeping out in the moonlight.
The steppe was silent. Bones slept beneath the earth. But the spirits… The spirits stood waiting.
Simana put on her headdress. Her fur cloak settled on her shoulders; it was neither heavy nor light—it was just right. She didn’t take her drum this time. She simply hung the drumstick from her belt.
first step. As she moved away from the tent, the encampment faded into the darkness. The children’s laughter, the women’s milk jugs, the men’s axes… All were left behind. But where everything had been left behind, there was a movement.
the grasses. Slanted, sharp, timid yet curious. It was a fox…
Simana stopped. The fox took a step. Simana took a step too. The two began walking together. It was as if the fox wasn’t calling to him; it was simply reminding him of the way.
foothills, the wind shifted. The scent of the earth grew sharper; the moisture receded, and the sound of stone became audible. Simana closed her eyes. For a moment, she felt as light as a feather. The steppe, the tent, time… All were left behind. Before her lay only a slope winding through the darkness and an indistinct, reddish shadow.
And then, the fox stopped. Simana looked into its eyes. And in that moment, she realized: The eyes she saw did not belong to the fox. They were her own. Just as they were—before she had given up on looking…
Time cracked. It was a tear. The sky did not open; Simana’s inner self opened. Deep within her heart, something stirred—something the first layer had silenced but had not yet torn away.
And a voice whispered. Neither loud nor distant. Just as close as it needed to be: “The second door is waiting for you!”
