Chapter Ten: Leaving the Hand
Rainy's Journal - Day 13
"Leaving Home"
I remember the day I left my village. I was so young. Braver than I realized, and far more lost than I would admit to anyone, even myself. I didn’t leave with defiance. I left quietly, walking a trail that led into mist, into questions, into something I couldn’t name. I couldn’t stay where I was. That much I knew. And so I went, heart heavy with uncertainty, but somehow still light with hope.
Back then, I didn’t know where I belonged. I felt like I belonged nowhere, and that ache followed me for a long time. I carried it like a secret weight, tucked beneath my ribs.
I never doubted there was meaning. Never doubted that something greater was holding everything together. Call it God, or the Source, or the Breath between stars—whatever name we give it doesn't change its nature. I believed in it. Still do. But my doubt… it was always in myself. And in people. In our ability to touch that holiness, to hear it clearly.
I asked questions I thought I wasn’t allowed to ask. Is the truth hidden from us on purpose? Is the divine withholding itself? I didn’t want to believe that, and yet… I accused it anyway. Quietly. Desperately.
And yet I believed, truly, that the Source could reveal itself if it wanted to. That it could answer any question I could possibly form. And I felt, even then, that maybe it wanted someone to ask—not to defy, but to honor creation by proving it real.
I wrote something in my journal once, something I still believe:
“The source of everything would neither require nor respect blind faith.”
Even then, I knew faith wasn’t about closing your eyes and jumping into the dark. It was about opening your eyes. Seeing what’s there. Trusting what has already been shown. Blindness wasn’t a virtue—it was a tragedy. True faith was the quiet courage to ask, and still believe.
But oh, how I doubted myself.
I didn’t feel worthy of eternity. I didn’t even know how to imagine it. If eternity was made of goodness, I thought, then maybe it didn’t need someone like me. I was the girl who said yes with her lips and no with her life. I was ashamed of that. Deeply. I still am, sometimes.But I see now that shame isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes it’s just truth knocking gently on the door, waiting to be let in.
There was a night I wrote—“Will the Source remember me?” I was terrified that I would be forgotten. That my flaws disqualified me. That my silence, my fear, my constant faltering meant I’d never belong to the goodness I longed for.
And yet… I kept writing. I told myself it was for the truth. Maybe it was also for someone to find, someday. I hoped, I think, to be seen. To be understood. Even by a stranger. And what is that hope, if not a prayer?
I watched people rush through life with certainty. With noise. With distraction. I felt apart from them. Not better. Just elsewhere. Like I could see the veil, when others couldn’t—or maybe wouldn’t. Their lives seemed so full, and yet so empty of what mattered. It made me lonely.
And still, I kept searching.
I believed in justice. I had to. But I struggled to reconcile it with the world I saw. The pain, the randomness. The way some were born into horror while others were shielded. How could justice exist in such imbalance?
I asked myself—what if we chose our lives before we lived them? What if we agreed to walk through pain, for reasons we can’t yet remember? But even that thought brought no peace. Why would anyone choose to suffer?
I still don’t know. But I do know that justice is deeper than fairness. And perhaps deeper than we can comprehend from here.
When I think back on that girl now, writing by firelight, or on windswept stone, or with rain falling down her sleeves… I feel such tenderness. She wanted to be good so badly. But everything felt like the wrong choice. Speak, and you fail. Stay silent, and you fail. She judged herself so harshly, and still kept going. That matters. That always matters.
And in the end, she didn’t stop searching.
She doubted. She feared. She cried. But she sought truth with her whole being. And that, I think, was enough. Not perfection. Not clarity. But the seeking. The raw, messy, aching pursuit of what is real.
She thought she was a ghost on a trail into darkness. But she wasn’t.
She was a girl being remade by the journey.
And looking back now… I see her beginning to shine.
---------------------------------
Rainy had been walking for days, each step pulling her farther from the life she had loved so fiercely it left a dull ache in her chest. The path ahead stretched like an unrolled ribbon, mysterious and endless, whispering promises she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. Behind her, the familiar world of home faded like a melody she’d never hear again—her family, their laughter, the comforting chaos of lives intertwined. She’d left them not out of want, but because the truth, inconvenient and unyielding, had left her no choice.
The weight of that truth clung to her shoulders, growing heavier with every mile. In her mind’s eye, she saw their faces, each smile a painful reminder of what she’d abandoned. She could almost hear the echoes of their joy, faint and teasing in the quiet, like ghosts haunting the space between one footfall and the next.
Her chest tightened with regret—a bittersweet kind of agony that only comes when love and duty tear at you in opposite directions. It had been the hardest decision of her life, and still, she’d made it. She wasn’t naive about what her choice meant. She was utterly alone now, walking into an uncertain future without their voices to guide her or their arms to hold her when the nights grew cold.
Pausing on the path, she glanced back, knowing full well there was nothing behind her but the soft smear of the horizon. Tears blurred her vision, not for the unknown that lay ahead, but for the love she’d left behind. How could she ever make them understand? The call she felt deep in her chest, was a flame sparking to life. It wasn’t something she could explain; it was something she had to obey.
Still, the thought stung. She carried them with her, every single one, woven tightly into the fabric of her soul. But as she moved forward, those threads stretched thinner and thinner. Would they hold? Or would they snap under the strain?
The answer didn’t matter. Turning back wasn't an option for someone like her, her home was gone now, only a memory. Rainy wiped a tear from her cheek, took a breath that tasted of grief and resolve, and stepped forward. Love, she reminded herself, wasn’t just something you held onto. Sometimes it was the force that pushed you forward.
The trailhead rose before her like a gateway to another world. Behind her, the valley sprawled in its quiet beauty, a secret she was leaving behind. She’d walked this path a thousand times, but today the sight of the distant mountains struck her differently. They weren’t just a landscape; they were a challenge, a promise wrapped in mist and shadow. The peaks, jagged and untamed, seemed to hum with an energy that thrummed through her veins.
“Well,” she muttered to herself, lips quirking into a crooked smile, “no pressure or anything.”
The mountains—silent, ancient, indifferent—offered no reply. They didn’t care about her fears or her doubts. Unlike the painstakingly cultivated Gardens she’d grown up tending, these wild lands couldn’t be tamed. The thought made her heart race. For all their endless labor, for all the years they’d poured into shaping their corner of the world, no one could conquer the mountains. And that was exactly why she had to go.
She’d heard their call, the voice no one else seemed to hear. It was a whisper carried on the wind, a promise woven into the rustle of leaves and the quiet roar of distant rivers. She couldn’t ignore it, no matter how much easier her life would’ve been if she’d stayed. The mountains were calling her name, and to turn away would be to betray herself.
Her mother had known all along. That’s why she’d sacrificed her to the Temple. She’d shielded Rainy from the watchful eyes of their community, from the whispers of those who feared what she was becoming. Because in their world, Readers didn’t stay. They fled, or they burned.
Rainy shuddered, the thought of the ceremonial fire crawling up her spine. It wasn’t just punishment; it was control, absolute and terrifying. Her stomach twisted as she imagined the flames, the heat, the smell of burning flesh. No, she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. Her mother’s last words echoed in her mind, soft and firm as the wind: Run, Rainy.
The wind tugged at her hair, cool and insistent, as if urging her forward. Rainy’s gaze followed the trail as it wound its way up the slopes, disappearing into the clouds that hung heavy over the peaks. Somewhere out there lay the answers she sought. Somewhere beyond the veil of mist was the truth she needed.
“It’s just a walk,” she said aloud, her voice breaking the stillness. “One step, then another. That’s all it is.”
But the tears that pricked her eyes told her it wasn’t so simple. She’d miss them—her parents, their laughter, the quiet moments of shared understanding. She’d miss the way her father sang old songs while tending the fire, and the way her mother’s hands always smelled of earth and lavender. Leaving them behind felt like carving out a piece of herself and leaving it to wither. But even as the ache of longing threatened to drown her, she knew she couldn’t stay. In her heart, she’d already gone.
A melody surfaced in her mind, unbidden but welcome, matching the rhythm of her steps. She began to hum softly, the words forming on her lips as she moved:
"There I sat by the wind-swept sea,
I asked the mountains to marry me.
They said, "Oh my child, when alone you can stand,
Then surely we will marry thee."
"So I asked the sky as the clouds flew by
To please tell me the reason why.
It said, "Sure, my child, I'll share what I can,
And maybe someday, you'll understand."
"Then I asked a tree at the close of day
To shelter me on my weary way.
It said, "Surely, my child, I'll do what I can,
But remember that I'm just a tree."
"Ey deal dee with a whim I owe,
Sing a longing song.
If you see me as the woman I'll be,
Then someday you will marry me."
Her voice wavered as she smiled, the song pulling memories of her parents closer, wrapping them around her like a warm cloak. She thought of the supplies they had shared, the tools her parents had taught her to use. Her father’s lessons on hunting, her mother’s wisdom about foraging—those skills would sustain her now. But this time, she’d face the wilderness alone.
Excitement coursed through her veins, igniting something fierce and bright. The mountains were waiting, their secrets tucked away like treasures, and Rainy was ready to find them. She would walk the path. She would listen to the wild, unspoken truths hidden in the rocks and trees.
And for the first time in her life, Rainy felt truly free.
Oceede life, at its core, revolves around two types of communication: reading and telling. The Oceede absorb knowledge, then share it. But at the pinnacle of understanding, it is the act of reading—of perceiving—that is lost to most.
Tellers are celebrated. They are the entertainers, weaving light-hearted stories that bring laughter or fleeting lessons without challenging the listener too deeply. Tellers are welcomed because their tales are easy to digest, their meanings simple and unthreatening. They distract from the harsher truths of life rather than revealing them.
Yet even among Tellers, there are some who stray too close to the Reader's path. When a Teller begins to weave stories so profound that they rattle the foundation of thought, they transcend. They become a Reader—not of books, but of the world, of the soul. Their stories grow too large to fit into mere words, and they are cast out as a result.
There comes a point for those few where their knowledge grows so vast it escapes explanation. They can only share it with those who also dwell in such heights of insight. Among these heights, no one else can judge them—for who could possibly measure the depths of an ocean they've never seen, or answer a riddle spoken in a foreign tongue?
To those left behind, this is a terrifying mystery. The Oceede fear what they cannot grasp, and what they fear, they resist. Readers, those who perceive and internalize truths too profound for simple explanation, are shunned because their knowledge is unsettling. The truths they uncover demand introspection, demand change, and that is a weight most are unwilling to bear.
Readers see the cracks in the world and speak of them, but the villagers prefer the comfort of their ignorance. To them, Readers are a threat—not because they are unkind, but because they unintentionally force others to confront the uncomfortable.
Rainy’s story was her essence—her truth. She had to leave because no one could understand her. It was almost an unspoken rule: when someone’s vision stretches beyond the horizon, they must walk away. Her parables, her insights, her piercing questions unsettled the villagers. They did not want to see the truths she saw, for those truths required them to question the foundations of their own lives. To them, Rainy was not a Teller, spinning simple tales for their amusement. She was something far more dangerous—a Reader, and that was something they could not accept.
Rainy told her people, "Your life is your story. That’s the real tale worth telling." She shared the parable of the man with eyes in a land of the blind, daring them to question, to wonder, to see. Instead, they resented her, they doubted her, they judged her. Who did she think she was to condescend in such a way? Rainy’s truths were too heavy, too sharp. And so, like all Readers before her, she walked away, carrying the weight of her understanding into the wilderness, where perhaps, one day, she might find those who could truly see.
One day, she looked at her hand—five fingers. She had four limbs and a head. Five senses. And each part of her grew smaller the further out it was on her body. Each segment smaller by the same ratio. Was this by chance? She speculated that people once knew these shapes, understood their significance; perhaps saw them as a reflection of something larger.
Rainy now stood under the vast dome of understanding—the Great Hand. But the Hand was only the beginning; there was more, so much more, she just knew it! She was placed in a world which was just perfect for her. In this world, she could think, perceive, learn, and grow. It was no coincidence that she was alive. Moreover, she knew that she was alive, and there was a reason for that!
But Reading came with a cost. Her realization struck her like lightning: all her actions, all her choices, were selfish. Every chore she ever had performed, every kindness she offered, every decision she made—driven by the desires of her own self. And not just her. Everyone. Everywhere. All of life surged forward, powered by selfishness in its many forms. You couldn’t escape it.
Standing above the crowd, Rainy saw it clearly. She could see them all—living, moving, surviving in the fog of mediocrity. Yet, none could see her standing here, looking down. Her head had risen above the haze, and with it came clarity. But clarity brought responsibility. Purpose clawed at her, pulling her forward. She had to tell stories that pierced hearts, stories that disturbed and provoked, stories that invited people to lift their heads from the fog. Rainy needed to compel them. She needed to provoke them to think!
The people saw it in her face—that unmistakable expression of someone burdened with truths too great for words, truths they did not and could not understand.
Rainy smiled wryly to herself. “Great,” she thought. “Now I’m the crazy girl who talks in riddles. Just another day as a Reader I suppose.”
Was she a Reader? Deep down, she knew: she had to keep telling the stories, no matter how lonely the view.
"Leaving Home"
I remember the day I left my village. I was so young. Braver than I realized, and far more lost than I would admit to anyone, even myself. I didn’t leave with defiance. I left quietly, walking a trail that led into mist, into questions, into something I couldn’t name. I couldn’t stay where I was. That much I knew. And so I went, heart heavy with uncertainty, but somehow still light with hope.
Back then, I didn’t know where I belonged. I felt like I belonged nowhere, and that ache followed me for a long time. I carried it like a secret weight, tucked beneath my ribs.
I never doubted there was meaning. Never doubted that something greater was holding everything together. Call it God, or the Source, or the Breath between stars—whatever name we give it doesn't change its nature. I believed in it. Still do. But my doubt… it was always in myself. And in people. In our ability to touch that holiness, to hear it clearly.
I asked questions I thought I wasn’t allowed to ask. Is the truth hidden from us on purpose? Is the divine withholding itself? I didn’t want to believe that, and yet… I accused it anyway. Quietly. Desperately.
And yet I believed, truly, that the Source could reveal itself if it wanted to. That it could answer any question I could possibly form. And I felt, even then, that maybe it wanted someone to ask—not to defy, but to honor creation by proving it real.
I wrote something in my journal once, something I still believe:
“The source of everything would neither require nor respect blind faith.”
Even then, I knew faith wasn’t about closing your eyes and jumping into the dark. It was about opening your eyes. Seeing what’s there. Trusting what has already been shown. Blindness wasn’t a virtue—it was a tragedy. True faith was the quiet courage to ask, and still believe.
But oh, how I doubted myself.
I didn’t feel worthy of eternity. I didn’t even know how to imagine it. If eternity was made of goodness, I thought, then maybe it didn’t need someone like me. I was the girl who said yes with her lips and no with her life. I was ashamed of that. Deeply. I still am, sometimes.But I see now that shame isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes it’s just truth knocking gently on the door, waiting to be let in.
There was a night I wrote—“Will the Source remember me?” I was terrified that I would be forgotten. That my flaws disqualified me. That my silence, my fear, my constant faltering meant I’d never belong to the goodness I longed for.
And yet… I kept writing. I told myself it was for the truth. Maybe it was also for someone to find, someday. I hoped, I think, to be seen. To be understood. Even by a stranger. And what is that hope, if not a prayer?
I watched people rush through life with certainty. With noise. With distraction. I felt apart from them. Not better. Just elsewhere. Like I could see the veil, when others couldn’t—or maybe wouldn’t. Their lives seemed so full, and yet so empty of what mattered. It made me lonely.
And still, I kept searching.
I believed in justice. I had to. But I struggled to reconcile it with the world I saw. The pain, the randomness. The way some were born into horror while others were shielded. How could justice exist in such imbalance?
I asked myself—what if we chose our lives before we lived them? What if we agreed to walk through pain, for reasons we can’t yet remember? But even that thought brought no peace. Why would anyone choose to suffer?
I still don’t know. But I do know that justice is deeper than fairness. And perhaps deeper than we can comprehend from here.
When I think back on that girl now, writing by firelight, or on windswept stone, or with rain falling down her sleeves… I feel such tenderness. She wanted to be good so badly. But everything felt like the wrong choice. Speak, and you fail. Stay silent, and you fail. She judged herself so harshly, and still kept going. That matters. That always matters.
And in the end, she didn’t stop searching.
She doubted. She feared. She cried. But she sought truth with her whole being. And that, I think, was enough. Not perfection. Not clarity. But the seeking. The raw, messy, aching pursuit of what is real.
She thought she was a ghost on a trail into darkness. But she wasn’t.
She was a girl being remade by the journey.
And looking back now… I see her beginning to shine.
---------------------------------
Rainy had been walking for days, each step pulling her farther from the life she had loved so fiercely it left a dull ache in her chest. The path ahead stretched like an unrolled ribbon, mysterious and endless, whispering promises she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. Behind her, the familiar world of home faded like a melody she’d never hear again—her family, their laughter, the comforting chaos of lives intertwined. She’d left them not out of want, but because the truth, inconvenient and unyielding, had left her no choice.
The weight of that truth clung to her shoulders, growing heavier with every mile. In her mind’s eye, she saw their faces, each smile a painful reminder of what she’d abandoned. She could almost hear the echoes of their joy, faint and teasing in the quiet, like ghosts haunting the space between one footfall and the next.
Her chest tightened with regret—a bittersweet kind of agony that only comes when love and duty tear at you in opposite directions. It had been the hardest decision of her life, and still, she’d made it. She wasn’t naive about what her choice meant. She was utterly alone now, walking into an uncertain future without their voices to guide her or their arms to hold her when the nights grew cold.
Pausing on the path, she glanced back, knowing full well there was nothing behind her but the soft smear of the horizon. Tears blurred her vision, not for the unknown that lay ahead, but for the love she’d left behind. How could she ever make them understand? The call she felt deep in her chest, was a flame sparking to life. It wasn’t something she could explain; it was something she had to obey.
Still, the thought stung. She carried them with her, every single one, woven tightly into the fabric of her soul. But as she moved forward, those threads stretched thinner and thinner. Would they hold? Or would they snap under the strain?
The answer didn’t matter. Turning back wasn't an option for someone like her, her home was gone now, only a memory. Rainy wiped a tear from her cheek, took a breath that tasted of grief and resolve, and stepped forward. Love, she reminded herself, wasn’t just something you held onto. Sometimes it was the force that pushed you forward.
The trailhead rose before her like a gateway to another world. Behind her, the valley sprawled in its quiet beauty, a secret she was leaving behind. She’d walked this path a thousand times, but today the sight of the distant mountains struck her differently. They weren’t just a landscape; they were a challenge, a promise wrapped in mist and shadow. The peaks, jagged and untamed, seemed to hum with an energy that thrummed through her veins.
“Well,” she muttered to herself, lips quirking into a crooked smile, “no pressure or anything.”
The mountains—silent, ancient, indifferent—offered no reply. They didn’t care about her fears or her doubts. Unlike the painstakingly cultivated Gardens she’d grown up tending, these wild lands couldn’t be tamed. The thought made her heart race. For all their endless labor, for all the years they’d poured into shaping their corner of the world, no one could conquer the mountains. And that was exactly why she had to go.
She’d heard their call, the voice no one else seemed to hear. It was a whisper carried on the wind, a promise woven into the rustle of leaves and the quiet roar of distant rivers. She couldn’t ignore it, no matter how much easier her life would’ve been if she’d stayed. The mountains were calling her name, and to turn away would be to betray herself.
Her mother had known all along. That’s why she’d sacrificed her to the Temple. She’d shielded Rainy from the watchful eyes of their community, from the whispers of those who feared what she was becoming. Because in their world, Readers didn’t stay. They fled, or they burned.
Rainy shuddered, the thought of the ceremonial fire crawling up her spine. It wasn’t just punishment; it was control, absolute and terrifying. Her stomach twisted as she imagined the flames, the heat, the smell of burning flesh. No, she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. Her mother’s last words echoed in her mind, soft and firm as the wind: Run, Rainy.
The wind tugged at her hair, cool and insistent, as if urging her forward. Rainy’s gaze followed the trail as it wound its way up the slopes, disappearing into the clouds that hung heavy over the peaks. Somewhere out there lay the answers she sought. Somewhere beyond the veil of mist was the truth she needed.
“It’s just a walk,” she said aloud, her voice breaking the stillness. “One step, then another. That’s all it is.”
But the tears that pricked her eyes told her it wasn’t so simple. She’d miss them—her parents, their laughter, the quiet moments of shared understanding. She’d miss the way her father sang old songs while tending the fire, and the way her mother’s hands always smelled of earth and lavender. Leaving them behind felt like carving out a piece of herself and leaving it to wither. But even as the ache of longing threatened to drown her, she knew she couldn’t stay. In her heart, she’d already gone.
A melody surfaced in her mind, unbidden but welcome, matching the rhythm of her steps. She began to hum softly, the words forming on her lips as she moved:
"There I sat by the wind-swept sea,
I asked the mountains to marry me.
They said, "Oh my child, when alone you can stand,
Then surely we will marry thee."
"So I asked the sky as the clouds flew by
To please tell me the reason why.
It said, "Sure, my child, I'll share what I can,
And maybe someday, you'll understand."
"Then I asked a tree at the close of day
To shelter me on my weary way.
It said, "Surely, my child, I'll do what I can,
But remember that I'm just a tree."
"Ey deal dee with a whim I owe,
Sing a longing song.
If you see me as the woman I'll be,
Then someday you will marry me."
Her voice wavered as she smiled, the song pulling memories of her parents closer, wrapping them around her like a warm cloak. She thought of the supplies they had shared, the tools her parents had taught her to use. Her father’s lessons on hunting, her mother’s wisdom about foraging—those skills would sustain her now. But this time, she’d face the wilderness alone.
Excitement coursed through her veins, igniting something fierce and bright. The mountains were waiting, their secrets tucked away like treasures, and Rainy was ready to find them. She would walk the path. She would listen to the wild, unspoken truths hidden in the rocks and trees.
And for the first time in her life, Rainy felt truly free.
Oceede life, at its core, revolves around two types of communication: reading and telling. The Oceede absorb knowledge, then share it. But at the pinnacle of understanding, it is the act of reading—of perceiving—that is lost to most.
Tellers are celebrated. They are the entertainers, weaving light-hearted stories that bring laughter or fleeting lessons without challenging the listener too deeply. Tellers are welcomed because their tales are easy to digest, their meanings simple and unthreatening. They distract from the harsher truths of life rather than revealing them.
Yet even among Tellers, there are some who stray too close to the Reader's path. When a Teller begins to weave stories so profound that they rattle the foundation of thought, they transcend. They become a Reader—not of books, but of the world, of the soul. Their stories grow too large to fit into mere words, and they are cast out as a result.
There comes a point for those few where their knowledge grows so vast it escapes explanation. They can only share it with those who also dwell in such heights of insight. Among these heights, no one else can judge them—for who could possibly measure the depths of an ocean they've never seen, or answer a riddle spoken in a foreign tongue?
To those left behind, this is a terrifying mystery. The Oceede fear what they cannot grasp, and what they fear, they resist. Readers, those who perceive and internalize truths too profound for simple explanation, are shunned because their knowledge is unsettling. The truths they uncover demand introspection, demand change, and that is a weight most are unwilling to bear.
Readers see the cracks in the world and speak of them, but the villagers prefer the comfort of their ignorance. To them, Readers are a threat—not because they are unkind, but because they unintentionally force others to confront the uncomfortable.
Rainy’s story was her essence—her truth. She had to leave because no one could understand her. It was almost an unspoken rule: when someone’s vision stretches beyond the horizon, they must walk away. Her parables, her insights, her piercing questions unsettled the villagers. They did not want to see the truths she saw, for those truths required them to question the foundations of their own lives. To them, Rainy was not a Teller, spinning simple tales for their amusement. She was something far more dangerous—a Reader, and that was something they could not accept.
Rainy told her people, "Your life is your story. That’s the real tale worth telling." She shared the parable of the man with eyes in a land of the blind, daring them to question, to wonder, to see. Instead, they resented her, they doubted her, they judged her. Who did she think she was to condescend in such a way? Rainy’s truths were too heavy, too sharp. And so, like all Readers before her, she walked away, carrying the weight of her understanding into the wilderness, where perhaps, one day, she might find those who could truly see.
One day, she looked at her hand—five fingers. She had four limbs and a head. Five senses. And each part of her grew smaller the further out it was on her body. Each segment smaller by the same ratio. Was this by chance? She speculated that people once knew these shapes, understood their significance; perhaps saw them as a reflection of something larger.
Rainy now stood under the vast dome of understanding—the Great Hand. But the Hand was only the beginning; there was more, so much more, she just knew it! She was placed in a world which was just perfect for her. In this world, she could think, perceive, learn, and grow. It was no coincidence that she was alive. Moreover, she knew that she was alive, and there was a reason for that!
But Reading came with a cost. Her realization struck her like lightning: all her actions, all her choices, were selfish. Every chore she ever had performed, every kindness she offered, every decision she made—driven by the desires of her own self. And not just her. Everyone. Everywhere. All of life surged forward, powered by selfishness in its many forms. You couldn’t escape it.
Standing above the crowd, Rainy saw it clearly. She could see them all—living, moving, surviving in the fog of mediocrity. Yet, none could see her standing here, looking down. Her head had risen above the haze, and with it came clarity. But clarity brought responsibility. Purpose clawed at her, pulling her forward. She had to tell stories that pierced hearts, stories that disturbed and provoked, stories that invited people to lift their heads from the fog. Rainy needed to compel them. She needed to provoke them to think!
The people saw it in her face—that unmistakable expression of someone burdened with truths too great for words, truths they did not and could not understand.
Rainy smiled wryly to herself. “Great,” she thought. “Now I’m the crazy girl who talks in riddles. Just another day as a Reader I suppose.”
Was she a Reader? Deep down, she knew: she had to keep telling the stories, no matter how lonely the view.