The Storyteller’s Notes

My mornings always began the same way—I woke up and saw the wall. On that wall was a thin strip of torn wallpaper that grew wider and wider each day. If I managed to tear off too big a piece, I knew it was time to cut my nails.

Then I’d get up and head to the nearest salon, where Elena would smile at me, take my hands, examine them carefully, and—without saying a word—begin to trim, file, and sometimes even paint my nails. Then she’d glance at my hair, tilt her head slightly, and ask with her eyes: “May I?”

And I’d answer the same way—with my eyes and a small nod: “Yes, you may.”

And she would begin to wash, comb, and cut.

I always needed a sign, something to tell me: now it’s time to cut your nails, now it’s time for your hair. I could never tell on my own. If I got sick, I’d only find out while visiting my mother—she would say, “Your lips are too dry,” the first sign it was time to take my temperature. When I was hungry, my stomach let me know. But no one ever told me I was tired.

I would just collapse—wherever I happened to be. And I suppose I was tired quite often. I could get tired walking to buy bread, or just sitting in a chair, reading.

There was only one thing that kept me from falling—writing something down. When I realized that, I started carrying a notebook and a pen with me everywhere. So if I collapsed far from home, all I had to do was pull them out and start writing. My strength came back instantly.

One day, I was caught in the act. A passerby came up to me while I was sitting by the roadside, writing. He asked if I needed help. I said I didn’t, but when I looked him in the eye, he simply wouldn’t walk away.

I can’t always manage my eyes. Sometimes they draw in things I’d rather not attract. And other times, when I want something badly, they put on such a silent plea that people instinctively want to turn away and escape.

“What are you writing?”

“Just... whatever comes to mind.”

“May I read it?”

“Of course.”

And I handed him my notebook. I’d never thought someone might simply want to read what another person had written. But the man read slowly, attentively, with genuine interest. And from that interest, a strange but pleasant feeling stirred in me.

He smiled, even laughed at some parts, shook his head at others, and sometimes sighed. He turned page after page, while I watched him closely, catching every flicker of emotion on his face. As if in him, I was seeing a reflection of feelings I’d never known I carried.

When he finished the last page, he sat in silence for a moment.

Then he looked at me seriously and asked, “Are you a writer?”

I had never heard that word before, but it sounded familiar—intimately so. So I said, “Yes. I’m a writer.”

And the moment I said it, something vast and warm rushed through my veins. I stood up and walked all the way home—without falling once.

Then came the morning.

I woke up too early, sensing that something wasn’t as it should be. My hand was moving—making strange, unfamiliar gestures. I opened my eyes and saw no wall in front of me. And then I heard it—a melody. It felt like it was coming from within me. And my hand moved in rhythm with that music.

I didn’t want it to stop—on the contrary, I wanted it to go on forever. That was the first time I understood what it meant to want something.

I got out of bed and began inventing movements, ones that matched the tune rising from inside me. It was the first time I reached for my notebook and pen not from exhaustion, but from joy. Yes, I had discovered happiness, too.

From then on, I treated other people’s thoughts, words, feelings, and memories like a chemist working with formulas—mixing, experimenting. I experimented with human emotions by reading my stories aloud. And slowly, I began to notice: fatigue visited me less and less. There was more and more strength in my hands, my feet, my eyes. And I poured that strength onto the page—and it only grew stronger.

Then came the day when the force inside me became too great to hold back. I slammed the door shut and ran. Ran from a city that, I realized, had never truly been mine. I ran for what felt like forever—days blurred and lost their count. I didn’t feel hunger or exhaustion—just ran, day and night, without pause. Until I reached a place that felt like the countryside.

I heard water. That was when I knew it was time to stop. Near the road, I spotted a small fountain. I approached it, washed my face, and—for the first time in all my wandering—drank deeply. Then I decided to stop running—because I wanted to finally see the mountains, the trees, the houses around me. There was something in them meant for me. And something in me meant for them.

I don’t know why, but I always seemed to know exactly which house I needed to visit. Many had been abandoned—some for a long time, it seemed. Soon I noticed that the abandoned houses didn’t look desolate at all. They felt proud, self-aware, filled to the brim with something—maybe memories. The ones still occupied, on the other hand, seemed hollow and frail. When I saw that, I knew instantly what I had to do. I understood why I had been brought there. I needed new stories. And those weary houses needed someone to tell them.

I approached the first house. The rusted filigree of its sagging gate promised a trove of stories. I climbed the stone steps, dodging the thorny greenery that had begun to take them over, and stopped at a door crowned with an image of the Virgin Mary. I remember looking at the image and thinking, “Baby.” Yes, just that one word. But by then I already understood how it worked—words simply came to me when I looked at something, and the meaning, the feeling, would come later. So there was no need to be surprised.

Cautiously, I stepped inside. I was a little afraid the floor might give way, but once I was sure I could trust the creaking boards, I surrendered myself to the walls, the doors, the windows of that house.

I wandered from room to room and saw a story—complete, coherent, and most importantly, mine.

“When do you stop feeling unsexed?” the walls asked.

“I think... when I need to dress a child,” I answered, picking a doll up from the floor.

It was dusty, missing one arm. I found a few scraps of cloth lying here and there and carefully wrapped them around her. My hands turned into a mother’s tender hands; my eyes began to love that tangled, filthy hair.

“How can you comfort her? She's missing an arm! She's hideous!” the windows squealed, testing my strength or my sincerity.

And I-she blazed up, and roared back:

“She’s beautiful! There’s no one more perfect, more complete!”

I started running around, drawing all the curtains shut to keep the light from disturbing her nap. Only when I saw her closed eyes and gentle breathing did I calm down.

Then I wandered quietly through the rest of the rooms. I saw photographs on the walls, open cabinets, the forgotten remnants of a life that had already turned into something else. Everything spoke—not asking for help, just kindly letting me take part in its story.

---

---

Once outside, I saw again the cracked steps and the creeping greenery overtaking them—but now, something in me had changed. Not just a new story, but a kind of knowledge I hadn’t known before. Wisdom at the level of instinct. The readiness to die. The erasure of self. A love that borders on wildness.

But after discovering all that, I didn’t want to speak. On the contrary—it seemed more fitting to offer it up to sacred silence—not the kind you wear like a medal, nose in the air, but the kind that makes it easier to look people in the eye when telling them your stories.

And so I ran again, both led and leading my own way. I breathed in the scent of pine and palm, listened to the cicadas’ buzz and the rustling of lizards. I could’ve used up every word in my head, every phrase that came to me, on anything at all—but I made the choice not to.

Not as a punishment—I'd stopped doing that—but as a kind of vow. I wanted to carry a full bucket of water to those who were truly thirsty, without spilling a drop. I was in a hurry to deliver it.

Having once known what it meant to dress a child with a mother’s hands, I now needed to find something new—a lonely house, a naked soul—to pass this knowledge on, so it wouldn't weigh me down. I knew too well: once you’ve been given such a weight, it’s yours to give to someone who needs it. That’s what a storyteller does.

And I reached a town where every house brimmed with people. I knew there would be no lonely, weak, or bare among them. But the burden pressed down too hard. I had no choice.

So I walked up to a door and knocked.

They opened it—faces veiled with the happiness of ignorance and the unwillingness to learn. I saw it instantly and my heart sank. I shrank into myself, timid as a beetle that’s slid into a sink and now scrabbles up the sides, unable to reach the edge. They looked at me expectantly.

And I said:

“If you give me a little space, a wooden chair, and a handful of feathers, I’ll light a fire in your eyes.”

It was a moment of real courage—the kind that can’t exist without fear—and it was instantly caged by the smirks in their eyes.

“So... you’re a writer?”

“Yes.”

And as soon as I said it, people swarmed from nowhere. Faces without faces—God forgive me.

They crowded around, all grinning—but not with joy, not with kindness. Someone gave me fluff instead of feathers. Whoever it was hadn’t paid attention to the details.

They said:

“We’ve started a war here—want to join?”

I didn’t answer with words. Just a clumsy gesture—the kind that only comes from shame and the urge to flee. I moved my shoulder slightly forward—they mocked it.

I stepped back—they jeered:

“Boo! Why so scared? We were just joking!”

But they were wrong again.

I wasn’t running anymore. I was wandering—numb, deafened by the noise in my own mind. The streets offered me nothing but empty eyes—no ears at all.

“Why? Why did I come to the city?” I kept asking myself.

Fatigue returned, a solid, suffocating mass. I was drained. They had torn my notebook into scraps, snapped all my pens in two.

So I began to whisper stories—sometimes slipping into a voice, like someone reciting a prayer.

Stories gave me strength. They gave me faith. They gave me truth.

At first, what I whispered seemed no more than scattered words. But slowly, word by word, I began to weave a fate, an image, a form. Breathless at first—but then smoother, steadier, clearer.

---

---

Whispering this story, confused as I was, I started to find clarity again. A crowd of godless people has no right—must not have the power—to strip me of peace and strength, even if the force of their emptiness is endless. All that remained was to return—once and for all—to the village I’d left. To tell the story I’d whispered in secret, away from the vacant crowd, to the orphaned, ailing homes that still waited for me.

I ran again, holding my thoughts in silence. I knew the story would end on its own, when the time came. And I repeated to myself like a mantra:

“Don’t choose. Please, don’t choose anything at all.”

And I didn’t choose. I simply met the house that had been waiting all along. It was barely alive—but someone lived there. Hidden in the shadow of a broad fig tree.

I stepped closer and peered through the window: A wooden bed, a chair, a table, a torn sack of potatoes. I knocked on the door. It opened at my touch. And I stepped inside, unafraid.

The house had just one room and a tiny kitchen. On the bed lay a man, wrapped in a blanket, turned to the wall. He didn’t seem to hear me enter.

I quietly began tidying up—preparing for the story. Found a cracked photo frame beneath the bed, removed the picture, set it against the wall on the table. Then I pulled a chair close to the bed and sat.

At first, I told my story with my eyes closed. It helped me find the rhythm, to match my voice to the sleeping man’s breath. By the time I reached the middle, he had woken. The story had been healing him in sleep. So there was no surprise in his eyes now—no joy, no foolish wonder.

He wasn’t angry. He had simply returned to himself. He was a man again. He watched me silently, and within me, a new dialogue began— between the storyteller and the woman.

“When do you stop feeling unsexed?” asked the storyteller.

“When a man looks into my eyes and I can’t help but lower them,” the woman replied.

“Why did you fall silent? The story seems unfinished,” he interrupted my inner dialogue, locking eyes with me, not even trying to look away.

Until that moment, I had rarely encountered emotions I couldn’t name. But when I did, I always matched them to someone—some saint or animal—that best embodied the feeling. Now... I could find no one. I wasn’t a doe, nor a she-wolf, nor the Virgin Mary. I wasn’t the wide-eyed Persephone, or the mannered Aphrodite, or the blood-loving dakini. Perhaps I was all of them at once. But very soon, I stopped flipping through them in my mind. They disappeared, or flattened into something too dull to hold. And what remained were my eyes—calm, and filled with a new knowledge of their own magnetism.

We looked at each other. In our gaze, there was no struggle. One of us was the sea, the other a pebble on the shore.

While we stayed silent, the shadows in the room shifted quickly, falling over us in triangles, squares, parallelograms. They spoke on our behalf. A sharp triangle landed on my left eye—on his cheek, a square appeared. A prism touched my forehead—a rectangle slashed across his eye. We studied the shadows on each other, sometimes smiling, sometimes serious, never mimicking, never grimacing. Evening came. The room turned completely dark.

Then he got up from the bed and lit a candle. He placed it on the table, beside a photograph of a woman I had pulled out from under the bed, and asked:

“What do you think I did next? Spent the evening with her?”

I kept looking at him and felt relieved he had spoken. In telling my story, I had begun to turn into a woman—and that’s an easy thing to get lost in. But his words brought me back to my purpose. I became a storyteller again—only now, filled with womanly power, and able to wield it.

I said: “No. You couldn’t.”

I felt his thoughts reaching toward me. There’s nothing more powerful than the desire to understand one’s own actions.

He asked: “Why not? It would’ve been easy.”

I answered:

“You felt your age. It was younger than hers. Not the age of your body—but the age of your thoughts. You were unsettled by a feeling of shame that came with it and began to infringe on something within you.”

Having said this, I emptied the story to the last drop. I heard dogs barking outside and once again felt the pull of the road.

“I wish you would stay,” he said, “but I suppose you want to leave.”

“Yes.”

And so I left.

The streets, the houses, the sleeping dogs—all were wrapped in night. I was armed with empty pages, and I looked upon the sleeping homes with joy. The restless ones waited for my stories. The calm and deserted had saved theirs for me. In the light of a streetlamp, I saw the silhouette of a wrought iron gate—it was open.

Inside one of the rooms of that empty house, I made a bed. When all the stories are told, it is time for sleep. And I slept—peacefully and fully.

I dreamed of the road ahead, with its houses, its people in need, and the bright sun overhead. I walked, and sometimes ran, along a road just like yesterday’s. But here, all the houses were abandoned. Not a soul on the streets. It didn’t trouble me at all. I went into each house and carefully wrote down the stories I found there.

Then, in one of those abandoned homes, I heard a familiar sound—not of wind or rustling leaves. My heart skipped a beat as I followed it. In one room, I saw a woman. She sat with her back to me, the scratch of her pen on paper sharp in the silence.

I was thrilled—but I didn’t want to frighten or interrupt her by calling out. I walked through the other rooms and entered through the door that faced her.

When she saw me, she didn’t smile. She jumped, clutching her notebook and the loose pages that fluttered from it, her eyes filled with fear and even anger as she backed away.

“How dare you come to my village?” she hissed.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” I said, honestly surprised.

“Didn’t you see my mark at the entrance?”

“I don’t know anything about marks,” I said—and now it was her turn to be surprised.

“Who are you? Who gave you the right to be a storyteller? I’ve never heard of you.”

“No one gave me the right. I took it,” I enjoyed how her arrogance didn’t make me feel timid in the least. “I don’t know you. I don’t know any other storytellers.”

“Then you’re an impostor. I'll report on you. I hate people like you. Get out! Storytellers aren’t meant to see each other at work—and especially not to be seen by impostors!”

“I’m not an impostor. I heal the weak with my stories.”

But I couldn’t go on.

She lunged at me, slashing with her claws.

In seconds, she turned into a cat and leapt out the open window.

When I woke the next morning, my whole body was covered in scratches. They bled and burned with pain. Even my feet were wounded—I could hardly walk, let alone run.

Limping, I reached a fountain. I washed the blood away, rinsed my face. Grief weighed heavy. I sat on one of the wooden benches that circled the fountain.

Across from me, I saw an old man. He had been watching all along. He asked,

“Are you the storyteller?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not a storyteller at all.”

“But the villagers speak of nothing else but your stories.”

“No one gave me the right to be a storyteller. So I’m not one.”

“I see what it is... You encountered Superbia. Don’t take her words to heart. She doesn’t know what it means to love people. All she has is the storyteller’s badge I once gave her—and now she hangs it up wherever she goes. I thought it might bring her some comfort, since she’s deeply unhappy. But instead, the badge only made her crueler. She began to feel a kind of power in it.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am the Master of Sad Stories. Do you know what the people call you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“They call you Harmony. That’s what you bring to their souls. It's a noble title, my child. So go, and tell your stories to the world.”

***

I wandered for five years, never staying in one place for long. When the stories of one village ran dry, I would move on to the next. A year ago, I decided—for a time—to stop wandering. I found a house and made it my own. It felt strange to be happy, especially when not a single story came to mind. Perhaps it was the happiness itself that kept them away.

So I went back to the Master of Sad Stories. I asked him, “Is there poetry in happiness?”

In reply, the Master posed a question of his own:

“Is there poetry in stone?”

I paused only for a moment— because I couldn’t imagine a stone without poetry— and said, “Of course there is.”

The Master smiled, stroked his beard the way he always did, and said:

“My joy, poetry is absent only where you try too hard.”

Then I returned home, closed my eyes, and for the first time in five years, fell into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, on the table beside me, I found a novel I had written in the night.