Chapter Twenty-Three: Children
Incomplete
She stood between the two great stones, at the mouth of the hallway carved into the living rock, and for the first time since she’d left her village, Rainy allowed herself to ask the quiet question that had traveled with her like a shadow: What was it, truly, that I came for?
The answer formed slowly, painfully honest.
Youth.
Not the kind you wear on your face or carry in the grace of your limbs—but the deeper youth. The inner flame. The hope, the beginning, the before.
That was what they all wanted, wasn’t it? To go back. To undo. To return to the time when nothing had yet been broken.
She had searched for it through mountains and memories, through stories and silence. And now, standing here before the Elder Children, she saw what they had always been. Symbols, yes—but not of the past.
They were warnings. Invitations. Mirrors.
The monoliths rose high into the misted sky, rough with the wear of forgotten centuries, yet so deliberate in their form th
at they seemed carved not by hand but by intention itself.
The first child reached upward, both arms extended toward the heavens in a silent, aching plea. Rainy’s breath caught as she studied the expression etched into its face—eyes wide, mouth open in something between awe and sorrow. It was a face she had seen before. In herself. In others. That sacred, futile yearning to be answered.
And the other… the twin.
Rainy turned to look upon the second figure. This one stood not in yearning, but in stillness. Its gaze was not cast skyward, but downward—toward her. And its face… its face was sad.
But not in despair.
There was compassion in the downturned eyes, something quiet and infinite. A knowing. The child’s hand rested on its own chest, not in fear, but in recognition. As though it were saying, Yes. You have come. You are ready now.
Rainy could hardly breathe.
These were not monuments to some forgotten deity. They were portraits. Archetypes. Reflections of the same dream that burned inside all people—to escape the truth of what must be lost, and yet to walk forward into it anyway.
She saw then what so few allowed themselves to see. The artists—those silent ones from millennia ago—had known what this place truly was. They hadn’t carved these forms as idols to be worshipped or stories to be retold. They had carved a map. A doorway.
This was a passage not into power, not into answers or salvation.
This was a passage into the deepest truth.
The truth we run from our whole lives.
The hallway yawned before her now, dark and cold, carved with an ancient precision that felt almost inhuman. She could feel the silence waiting down there, the vastness that defied any name she might give it. She stood at the edge of it, one heartbeat away from descent, and knew: this was not the end of her journey—it was the reason for it.
No wonder they had feared this place. Her parents. Her village. The Tellers. The elders. No wonder they had buried it beneath rituals and stories, beneath sand and silence. No wonder they taught their children to smile, to obey, to not ask too much.
Because this place held no comfort. Only clarity.
And clarity is the enemy of comfort.
She felt the ache of it in her bones—that everything she had known, everything she had been taught to love or fear, was smaller than the truth that lay just ahead.
They had wanted to remain children forever. But here, beneath the gaze of stone, Rainy understood:
To truly live… you must let the child die.
Not the innocence—but the illusion.
The illusion that we are owed a path without sorrow. That we can remain untouched by the passage of time. That we can stay who we were.
This was what she had come for. Not youth—but the understanding of its end.
And in that ending… something more honest. Something vast.
Still, her feet did not yet move.
The crypt waited. But for now, Rainy stood between the children of stone, and let herself mourn.
--------------------------------
I remember that night beneath the Elder Children more vividly than most things now.
So many memories have softened with time—faces blur, voices fade, entire seasons collapse into the blur of “then.” But that night remains sharp. Untouched by the years. The cold, the weight of the stars above, the ache in my chest as I looked up at the stone child reaching skyward… and the sorrow in the twin who looked down at me. I remember how still the world was. How loud my heart.
I remember thinking, This is it. This is the moment I stop pretending.
It’s strange now, how young I was then. How brave I believed myself to be. I thought I was making a choice. But it was never a choice, not really. That moment at the threshold of the crypt—it had been calling me all my life. It was only then that I finally answered.
And now… now I am old. My hands tremble even as I write this, scribbling faster than I can think, as if the pages might disappear before I finish. My body betrays me more with each passing day, but still I try—because someone must remember.
Will anyone care for this story?
Maybe not. Most never did. People want tales of victory, of ease, of simple truths wrapped in ribbons. Not this. Not the quiet grief of awakening. Not the long ache of faith, or the silence between questions and answers.
But even so, I write. Because there is one who listens.
He was always there—my King.
Not the king of any throne, not the kind you find in books of war or gold, but my King. The one I served with every step I took, though I didn’t know His face then. The one who whispered me forward when the fire burned low and the path was lost in fog. The one who called me to speak not in riddles, but in truth. Who asked of me everything, and offered nothing in return but Himself.
I have never touched Him. Not once.
But I have loved Him more than breath. And I gave everything to Him, in faith. Not to win His favor, not for reward, but for the sake of love itself. For the hope that He would find me worthy of having tried.
Everything I did, I did for Him.
Even when I didn’t know I was doing it.
And He saw me.
Even when no one else did.
Even when the villagers turned their faces, when the elders muttered behind their sleeves, when my own voice shook from fear—I kept walking. I told the stories they didn’t want to hear. I left when it cost me. I kept faith with the truth, because I believed He would not ask it of me in vain.
And now I sit in this frail body, hunched and cold, watching the end of myself approach. But I am not afraid.
Because I remember. Because I was there. I stood before the Children. I looked into their sorrowed eyes. I walked down into the crypt where the world cracked open and the sky came down. And still I rose. Still I wrote.
Maybe no one else will care. Maybe these pages will rot in some forgotten chest, or be burned by someone who thinks the truth is dangerous.
But He will know.
And for that—for Him—I would live it all again.
Even the pain.
Especially the pain.
Because it meant I had felt something real. Something holy. And if the cost of love is sorrow, then let it cost everything.
Let the story be told, even if only to Him.
She stood between the two great stones, at the mouth of the hallway carved into the living rock, and for the first time since she’d left her village, Rainy allowed herself to ask the quiet question that had traveled with her like a shadow: What was it, truly, that I came for?
The answer formed slowly, painfully honest.
Youth.
Not the kind you wear on your face or carry in the grace of your limbs—but the deeper youth. The inner flame. The hope, the beginning, the before.
That was what they all wanted, wasn’t it? To go back. To undo. To return to the time when nothing had yet been broken.
She had searched for it through mountains and memories, through stories and silence. And now, standing here before the Elder Children, she saw what they had always been. Symbols, yes—but not of the past.
They were warnings. Invitations. Mirrors.
The monoliths rose high into the misted sky, rough with the wear of forgotten centuries, yet so deliberate in their form th
at they seemed carved not by hand but by intention itself.
The first child reached upward, both arms extended toward the heavens in a silent, aching plea. Rainy’s breath caught as she studied the expression etched into its face—eyes wide, mouth open in something between awe and sorrow. It was a face she had seen before. In herself. In others. That sacred, futile yearning to be answered.
And the other… the twin.
Rainy turned to look upon the second figure. This one stood not in yearning, but in stillness. Its gaze was not cast skyward, but downward—toward her. And its face… its face was sad.
But not in despair.
There was compassion in the downturned eyes, something quiet and infinite. A knowing. The child’s hand rested on its own chest, not in fear, but in recognition. As though it were saying, Yes. You have come. You are ready now.
Rainy could hardly breathe.
These were not monuments to some forgotten deity. They were portraits. Archetypes. Reflections of the same dream that burned inside all people—to escape the truth of what must be lost, and yet to walk forward into it anyway.
She saw then what so few allowed themselves to see. The artists—those silent ones from millennia ago—had known what this place truly was. They hadn’t carved these forms as idols to be worshipped or stories to be retold. They had carved a map. A doorway.
This was a passage not into power, not into answers or salvation.
This was a passage into the deepest truth.
The truth we run from our whole lives.
The hallway yawned before her now, dark and cold, carved with an ancient precision that felt almost inhuman. She could feel the silence waiting down there, the vastness that defied any name she might give it. She stood at the edge of it, one heartbeat away from descent, and knew: this was not the end of her journey—it was the reason for it.
No wonder they had feared this place. Her parents. Her village. The Tellers. The elders. No wonder they had buried it beneath rituals and stories, beneath sand and silence. No wonder they taught their children to smile, to obey, to not ask too much.
Because this place held no comfort. Only clarity.
And clarity is the enemy of comfort.
She felt the ache of it in her bones—that everything she had known, everything she had been taught to love or fear, was smaller than the truth that lay just ahead.
They had wanted to remain children forever. But here, beneath the gaze of stone, Rainy understood:
To truly live… you must let the child die.
Not the innocence—but the illusion.
The illusion that we are owed a path without sorrow. That we can remain untouched by the passage of time. That we can stay who we were.
This was what she had come for. Not youth—but the understanding of its end.
And in that ending… something more honest. Something vast.
Still, her feet did not yet move.
The crypt waited. But for now, Rainy stood between the children of stone, and let herself mourn.
--------------------------------
I remember that night beneath the Elder Children more vividly than most things now.
So many memories have softened with time—faces blur, voices fade, entire seasons collapse into the blur of “then.” But that night remains sharp. Untouched by the years. The cold, the weight of the stars above, the ache in my chest as I looked up at the stone child reaching skyward… and the sorrow in the twin who looked down at me. I remember how still the world was. How loud my heart.
I remember thinking, This is it. This is the moment I stop pretending.
It’s strange now, how young I was then. How brave I believed myself to be. I thought I was making a choice. But it was never a choice, not really. That moment at the threshold of the crypt—it had been calling me all my life. It was only then that I finally answered.
And now… now I am old. My hands tremble even as I write this, scribbling faster than I can think, as if the pages might disappear before I finish. My body betrays me more with each passing day, but still I try—because someone must remember.
Will anyone care for this story?
Maybe not. Most never did. People want tales of victory, of ease, of simple truths wrapped in ribbons. Not this. Not the quiet grief of awakening. Not the long ache of faith, or the silence between questions and answers.
But even so, I write. Because there is one who listens.
He was always there—my King.
Not the king of any throne, not the kind you find in books of war or gold, but my King. The one I served with every step I took, though I didn’t know His face then. The one who whispered me forward when the fire burned low and the path was lost in fog. The one who called me to speak not in riddles, but in truth. Who asked of me everything, and offered nothing in return but Himself.
I have never touched Him. Not once.
But I have loved Him more than breath. And I gave everything to Him, in faith. Not to win His favor, not for reward, but for the sake of love itself. For the hope that He would find me worthy of having tried.
Everything I did, I did for Him.
Even when I didn’t know I was doing it.
And He saw me.
Even when no one else did.
Even when the villagers turned their faces, when the elders muttered behind their sleeves, when my own voice shook from fear—I kept walking. I told the stories they didn’t want to hear. I left when it cost me. I kept faith with the truth, because I believed He would not ask it of me in vain.
And now I sit in this frail body, hunched and cold, watching the end of myself approach. But I am not afraid.
Because I remember. Because I was there. I stood before the Children. I looked into their sorrowed eyes. I walked down into the crypt where the world cracked open and the sky came down. And still I rose. Still I wrote.
Maybe no one else will care. Maybe these pages will rot in some forgotten chest, or be burned by someone who thinks the truth is dangerous.
But He will know.
And for that—for Him—I would live it all again.
Even the pain.
Especially the pain.
Because it meant I had felt something real. Something holy. And if the cost of love is sorrow, then let it cost everything.
Let the story be told, even if only to Him.