"Time is a concept, an illusion that we’ve created to understand the flow of life. The present moment is all that exists. The past is a memory, the future a projection—only the now is real."

  - Alan Watts

  ***

  As Arin sat in the quiet of the forest, the weight of his past and present swirling within him, the book in his lap began to stir. A low hum filled the air, and then it spoke. At first, it was soft—a whisper that seemed almost too faint to hear—but then it grew, and the name echoed through his mind.

  Arin.

  Startled, he opened his eyes, his heart skipping a beat. The name was unfamiliar, yet it felt strangely natural, as if it had always belonged to him. He ran his fingers over the pages of the book, as if searching for the source of the voice. The book, however, remained still, its pages as blank as ever, but the name still resonated deep within him.

  He frowned, confused. How could he be called by this name? He had always been the woodcutter, the one who lived and survived in the forest, with no ties to a past beyond his labor. But the name... Arin. There was something familiar about it, something buried in the corners of his mind. A flicker of memory stirred, one he had long since forgotten—an image of his mother’s face, his father’s voice, calling out to him with love and warmth.

  The memory felt distant, like a dream fading with the dawn, but as the name repeated in his mind, it aligned with the recollection of his lost childhood. Arin—this was the name they had called him, the name his parents had whispered with care and affection. The memory surged, flooding his heart with bittersweet emotion.

  His mother’s gentle smile, his father’s strong, weathered hands, both now lost to the endless cycle of Samsara. Their faces, once so vivid, now resurfaced in his mind’s eye. They were gone, torn away by time and fate, but their love for him, their life together, was a part of him—forever.

  Tears welled in his eyes, not from the thrill of newfound powers, but from the sorrow of a past long buried. The name Arin was his—given to him by parents who had passed away long ago. For so long, he had been the woodcutter, carrying the weight of survival in silence. But now, as the book recognized him and called him by his true name, he had reclaimed something precious, something deep within his soul.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  A smile crept across his face, bittersweet and full of warmth. It wasn’t the joy of newfound strength that brought tears to his eyes. It was the memory of those weathered, tired, but happy faces—the faces of his parents, long gone in the wheel of Samsara.

  He had remembered.

  ***

  Arin rested against the ancient tree, his back pressed to the rough bark, the quiet rustle of leaves above him the only sound that accompanied his thoughts. The weight of his memories settled upon him, heavy yet familiar, like an old cloak he had forgotten to remove. With each breath, he felt the past stir within him, the long-buried moments rising to the surface.

  He remembered the village, his childhood home, where the fields stretched endlessly, and the air had always smelled of earth and life. He remembered the girl, his childhood sweetheart, the one whose smile had once brightened his world. She had married the high-caste son of the village head, leaving him with a hollow ache in his heart. She had stopped speaking to him, her silence a painful reminder of the divide that had always existed between them.

  Then there was his best friend, the one who had left for the great war. Arin could still hear his laughter, still see his face, full of dreams and hopes. But the war had changed everything. Brothers fought brothers, uncles betrayed nephews for greed and power, and in the chaos, his friend had disappeared, swallowed by the ambition of distant lands. The gods were silent, and the holy men, who had once spoken of compassion, now walked a path of detachment, forgetting the very mortals they had vowed to serve.

  Yet, amidst the cruelty and greed, there had been moments of pure kindness. The wife of the village head, who had cared for him when he was sick, when he had nothing to eat. She had given him food and comfort, her hands gentle in a world that was anything but. And the village head, with his quiet wisdom, had taught Arin to read and write, sharing his knowledge despite the son’s disdain.

  Time had washed it all away. The memories, once so vivid, had faded into the distance. But now, as Arin rested in the solitude of the forest, they came rushing back to him, clearer than ever before. His parents’ faces, weathered and tired, appeared in his mind’s eye, their smiles now long gone in the wheel of Samsara. The love they had given him, the pain of their loss—it was all there, as fresh as the day they had passed.

  He let the memories wash over him, not with sorrow, but with peace. They no longer haunted him. They were simply a part of him, a part of the journey that had led him here. The faces of his parents, his friends, and the kindness of the village head’s wife—they were all with him still, but now, they no longer had the power to hold him back.

  Arin closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memories rest where they belonged. He would carry them forward, but they would no longer be chains. They were the roots that grounded him, the lessons that had shaped him, and with that understanding, he allowed them to settle peacefully in his heart.

  The world had changed, and he had changed with it. The forest around him whispered, as though acknowledging the shift within him. The path ahead was uncertain, but Arin was no longer the same man who had once walked through those village fields. The past had shaped him, yes, but it was the present—this moment—that mattered now

  ***