Kvapeľ - Livelihood

Somewhere very far away, not by distance but by depth, there lives a resident in the caves. They weren't always a resident. At first, they were a visitor. At first, they were perhaps an explorer, or even an adventurer. At first, others knew of them. At first, they could still see.

Now the resident roams the caves not by sight, but by memory. Maybe the resident sometimes misses their sight, but the caves are dark and it wouldn't be helpful anyway. Maybe the resident sometimes misses the company of others, but maybe sometimes they're glad to be alone. They wonder if others remember them. But surely they must, otherwise the resident would cease to exist. Would they be real, if no one knew they existed, if no memory of them lasted? Surely, someone somewhere must remember them.

The resident is often doubtful. They're afraid they will soon be forgotten and they're afraid they will cease to exist. And so the resident tells stories. There's no one there to listen, yet the stories are heard. 

The walls take everything in, remembering every single detail the resident shares. The walls remember castle walls and battles, they remember princesses and dragons. They remember tall trees and crumbling mountains and mourning stars and abandoned valleys. They remember everything. And they remember the resident.

The dripstones listen closely, they take each story, mend it over, shuffle the words and pass it on, each drop on the ground telling a slightly different version of each story. A flock of crows becomes a single swan, a burned down village turns into a feast, the king becomes the queen. Yet one thing stays the same. Every single story has something in common and that is the resident. Every dripstone, every drop of water, remembers the resident and passes on their stories.

The pool listens, its ripples making every detail seem more important and bigger with each new word. The farmer boy becomes a wanderer becomes a knight becomes a hero becomes a king. The orphaned fawn becomes a swift doe becomes a magical buck becomes a myth. And in the center of every ripple and every story, there is the resident. Never forgotten.

The echo listens and the echo talks back, adding new details and new stories. The resident talks of grand balls and the echo talks about a peasant, sneaking into the castle. The resident talks of towns and the echo talks about doors, countless doors, each hiding their own story behind itself. The echo is glad to have company and the echo knows it wouldn't be here without the resident. The echo is glad and the echo remembers.

The resident roams the caves, not by sight, but by memory, and the resident tells stories. Yet one story is never finished, cut short at the most intense part by a sudden sound. Movement, footsteps, breathing. Not the resident's movement, nor their footsteps nor breath. There is someone else. The resident stops, unsure of what to do.

"Please, do continue" a voice says. 

The resident is startled, even though they should have expected a voice, when there was clearly a mouth. But try however they might, the resident cannot continue. They don't remember the words that left their mouth mere moments ago, they don't remember the storm nor the forest, fighting hard against the winds. They only remember the voice and the breath in front of them.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you." the voice starts again and the resident quickly shakes their head, because they care not for the interrupted story they no longer remember. Instead, the resident asks who the visitor is and the visitor answers. And the resident asks more questions, eager to learn more about the outside, how things have changed. So the visitor talks and the resident listens and the walls listen and the dripstones and the pool and the echo. They don't change the stories for the stories aren't theirs to change and they don't remember the stories, because they're not theirs to remember. The resident and the visitor talk and exchange stories, unaware of how much time has passed, as there is no sky, no sun and no moon, to tell them if it has been a day or two or more.

The resident learns about the outside world, how the trees are dying and towns turn into cities and the stars are crying, but no one can see them cry, because the skies are always bright. The resident learns about wars and famine and death and the resident cries with the earth. Then the visitor talks of morning dew and birdsongs, and how there's always a sun-kissed stone if you only look for it. There is always warmth and love, the flowers still bloom when you give them companionship. The resident wonders if this is love. Sharing stories and listening, not expecting anything, only taking everything in. They wonder if remembering is love. They like that idea a lot.

The resident could sit there and listen forever, but the visitor is only a visitor. The resident has been a visitor once too and stayed, but this visitor doesn't want to stay. They want to go back, back to the outside world filled with cruelty and death, but also life and hope. The resident disagrees, for the caves stay the same. There is no destruction, there is only them and their stories. Yet the visitor leaves anyway.

The resident still tells stories, but they're different now. They talk about the visitor. The visitor, like a strong river, passing between mountains, overgrown with moss, filled with stone and mist and fog. The echo no longer adds anything and the dripstones no longer shuffle the words and the pool no longer changes. They don't have to. The resident talks and with every story, the visitor is brighter, filled with more love and hope than should be possible. In some stories the visitor stays, in some stories the resident leaves with them, yet in most stories the resident is left behind. The resident feels lonely for the very first time since they've been here and they wonder if the visitor still remembers them. But if the visitor does not, surely the resident would cease to exist, because there is no one else to remember them. That has to be enough for the resident.

Days and years pass and the stories are all the same, yet they're all different. One day, the visitor returns. Yet the resident doesn't recognise them, because they're not the same visitor as the one in their stories. The story-visitor is a hero, a bringer of light and hope, a love-filled adventurer. The real-visitor is just that. A visitor.

And the resident wonders if love is remembering, or perhaps if idealizing one and changing them with each story is. The resident no longer likes that idea. After the visitor leaves, they stay quiet. They always wanted the visitor to return, but the reality was painful. And if love is remembering, they don't want the visitor to remember them anymore. Yet the resident is still there in the caves, never ceasing to exist, and only the walls and dripstones and the pool and the echo know why they no longer tell stories.