Periergia

  I

  Morning light spilled through the windows of the small, unassuming cafe. A gentle hush filled the place, interrupted only by the low hum of conversation and the soft clatter of porcelain cups. Cato, ninety-six years old, sat at a modest table by the window, hunched over his tea. Philomath, sixteen, his curious eyes flickering with eagerness, stood for a moment at the entrance, scanning the room until he caught sight of his great-grandfather.

  “Great-Grandpa, you’re early again,” Philomath said, crossing the room in long strides.

  “I’ve lived long enough to know that punctuality is a precious commodity,” Cato murmured, beckoning the boy closer. “And do stop calling me ‘Great-Grandpa’ so loudly. I’d hate for anyone to fuss over just how ancient I am.”

  “I apologize,” Philomath replied, sliding into the seat opposite him. “I’m never quite sure how formal I need to be.”

  “You needn’t be formal at all,” Cato said, glancing at the steam curling above his tea. “Titles are for bureaucrats and flatterers. A simple greeting suffices in most cases.”

  Philomath leaned forward, elbows on the table, letting the swirl of morning conversation fade in the background. “I was thinking about your views the other day—about life, about how you say the mind is a burden. It’s weird, but you make it sound so grim, and yet I can’t help feeling fascinated. You said something last time about illusions.”

  “Illusions,” Cato repeated with a thin smile. “Those countless daydreams we clutch, believing them to be anchors in a storm. But they are riddled with false hope and riddled with disappointment. Think, for a moment, how many times you’ve been certain of something—triumph in a competition, the promise of a friend’s loyalty, the notion of how your future self might behave—and see how illusions dissolve into a more severe reality as time ticks on.”

  “I don’t know if it’s illusions that keep us going, or if it’s truth itself,” Philomath said softly. “I keep hearing from teachers and reading in books that truth is the ultimate pursuit. But sometimes I wonder: is it the pursuit of truth, or the illusions we craft, that give us reason to keep living?”

  Cato gave a raspy chuckle, lifting his tea and sipping in silence for a moment. “Ah, the illusions are often kinder to us than truth. Isn’t that a brutal irony? People cling to illusions about the goodness of life, the inevitability of success, the promise of unwavering love. I see illusions as a narcotic, a pleasant haze that keeps the pain at bay. Meanwhile, truth is a biting wind that chills the spirit. Which do you think an old man like me prefers to see at this point—narcotic illusions or the stark face of real existence?”

  “I’d assume, based on everything you’ve taught me, that you choose truth over illusions,” Philomath answered after a hesitant pause.

  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Cato set his cup down with a faint clink. “But you’ll notice I keep showing up at this cafe, always sipping this wretched tea, as though it possesses some transcendent significance. Is that not itself an illusion, an old man’s small comfort? A ritual that allows him to pretend for a few minutes that life has consistency and meaning?”

  Philomath scratched the back of his neck. “I suppose so. But rituals don’t have to be illusions, do they? Maybe they’re just… habits, or a sense of order we create for ourselves.”

  “And that, in turn, is built on the illusion that order holds intrinsic value in a fundamentally random world,” Cato murmured. “Yet we do love order, we do cling to meaning, real or imagined. Otherwise we’d go mad with panic.”

  Philomath leaned back, letting out a slow breath. “Sometimes when I talk to you, Great-Grandfather—sorry, Cato—I feel like the ground trembles beneath me. I’m taught to be optimistic, to look for opportunities in every situation, but the way you speak—well, it’s as if you stand at the brink of a vast void. I’m not sure whether to be frightened or intrigued.”

  “Hmm,” Cato said, his gaze shifting out the window. “Fear is natural in youth. Intrigue is what separates you from those who remain content with half-truths. Fear, intrigue—both are stepping stones toward wisdom. That’s why I must keep pressing you, keep posing uncomfortable questions. You’re bright, but you’re also young, and youth’s illusions run thick as honey.”

  “I’m not naive,” Philomath insisted, though there was a youthful quake in his voice. “I know the world can be harsh, but… I also think there’s beauty in it.”

  “Of course there’s beauty,” Cato said quickly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “You think a pessimist is blind to beauty? I’ve witnessed more sunrises than you could imagine. I’ve felt the pull of an autumn breeze. I’ve loved, lost, loved again. I see the world’s grandeur, but I also see it slipping away. Or, rather, I see it for what it is—a fleeting spark that’s swallowed by night. That fleeting spark is too brief for most, and they’re left stumbling in the dark, trying to recover its warmth.”

  “It must still be worth something,” Philomath ventured softly, “that fleeting spark, I mean. Isn’t a moment of brightness better than an eternity of—”

  “Eternity,” Cato interjected with a wry smile, “is a concept people toss around to comfort themselves. Look at you, speaking of eternity as though you know it intimately. Life is moments stacking upon moments, each one sliding into oblivion before we can properly name it. The spark is worth something, perhaps, if we are content with the ephemeral. But contentment, too, is a subtle trap.”

  “That’s a bleak perspective.”

  “I prefer the term ‘clear-sighted,’” Cato said.

  Philomath let his gaze drift to the other patrons: a couple whispering in a corner, a lone figure studying a newspaper, a row of freshly brewed coffees waiting at the bar. He breathed in the smell of roasted beans, warm pastries, and felt a sting in his chest as he considered how many of these people hurried through their day without suspecting life’s deeper questions.

  “Do you think everyone is just ignoring the deeper truths?” he asked.

  Cato studied him for a moment, then let out a small sigh. “Ignoring might be too strong a word. Let’s say they’re preoccupied with surviving. Some are too busy wrestling with real hardships, heartbreaks, daily tasks. Others bury their heads in trivialities. And a few, like you, look around and realize there might be something more. But that something more isn’t always comforting. More knowledge, more discontent, more burden. The trick is recognizing that while knowledge may be a burden, not knowing is a heavier one.”

  Philomath tapped his finger on the table. “Sometimes I feel as though all these existential contemplations don’t lead anywhere. You point out illusions, I see them unravel… and then what? Are we supposed to chase illusions anyway, or reject them and face the emptiness head-on?”

  “Ha! That’s precisely the question,” Cato said in a hushed tone. “That’s the dilemma all thoughtful souls confront. Some will bury themselves in illusions despite knowing they are illusions—like a person who sees the puppet strings but still chooses to sit rapt at the puppet show. Others become so disgusted by illusions that they lash out, disclaiming life itself. Then there are a few who hover in a strange middle ground: aware of illusions, but not quite discarding them, living half in shadow, half in light.”

  “Where do you place yourself?” Philomath asked.

  “I’m not certain I place myself anywhere,” Cato admitted. “I’ve had enough decades to try every vantage point. I’ve embraced illusions, I’ve rejected them, I’ve gone back and forth. In the end, I’ve concluded that living with eyes open demands the acceptance that illusions aren’t wholly discardable. We can see them for what they are, yet we rely on them for daily function. You can’t exist in society without illusions. Even the concept of tomorrow is, in its way, an illusion—an assumption that we’ll be here the next day.”

  “That’s unsettling to realize,” Philomath whispered. “But how do I—”

  He paused as a waitress approached, her face bright with polite curiosity. She took their orders, smiling in a perfunctory manner, jotting notes before vanishing into the kitchen. Cato’s gaze lingered on her retreating form.

  “Notice how she moves swiftly,” he remarked. “She goes on with her tasks, possibly unaware of the swirling darkness we’re discussing. Maybe she has her own brand of illusions—a bright future, personal dreams. Maybe she’s already acquainted with sorrow. One never knows what burden others carry in their hearts.”

  Philomath drummed his fingers again. “You know, I do wonder if any of these illusions help us to be kinder or more resilient. Like, if she’s got a dream to open her own cafe one day, maybe that dream helps her push through a tough shift, helps her treat everyone politely.”

  “Precisely,” Cato said. “Illusions can serve as a balm. Yet once you see them as illusions, it becomes a matter of acknowledging them without letting them consume you. Dreams, after all, can keep you from sinking when the waters get dark. But fixate on them too tightly, and you’ll drown in delusion.”

  “So is there any path to genuine happiness, then?” Philomath asked, eyes gleaming with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. “Or is happiness simply another illusion?”

  “Happiness,” Cato said, rapping his knuckles lightly on the table, “is a fleeting state, a moment of relief from suffering. People chase it as though it’s a permanent condition, only to be disappointed. Better to define it as a passing respite, appreciate it when it’s there, and not cling to it like it’s your birthright. In my experience, the more one demands happiness, the more elusive it becomes.”

  “That does sound… well, not exactly cheery,” Philomath admitted, letting out a short laugh tinged with discomfort.

  “It’s not cheery, but perhaps it’s not wholly tragic either. Imagine if you free yourself from the pressure to be constantly happy. You might find more peaceful acceptance in your day-to-day living. You’d realize it’s enough that sometimes you feel a bit of lightness, a bit of joy, and that sometimes sorrow pays a visit, too.”

  “That perspective might help me stress less,” Philomath conceded. “But if you were my age—sixteen—would you want to follow that advice, or would you cling to illusions? Because at sixteen, the future looks massive and full of possibilities.”

  Cato’s eyes flickered. “When I was your age, I was stumbling through illusions just as much as anyone. I was certain I’d conquer the world in one way or another, marry the perfect partner, build an unshakeable future. Life stepped in and corrected those illusions over time. Now, if I had the chance to speak to my younger self, I’d whisper: ‘Temper your desires. Temper your certainties. Tread carefully between dreams and acceptance.’ But I’d also allow that illusions have their place. Without them, a sixteen-year-old might grow bitter prematurely.”

  Philomath nodded, a thoughtful furrow forming between his eyebrows. “I guess each stage of life has its illusions, then. And you have to figure out which illusions to hold on to and which to abandon.”

  “Beautifully put,” Cato replied. “Though there’s a certain sadness in discarding illusions. Sometimes you feel as though you’re discarding a piece of your own heart.”

  “I already feel that sadness when I realize I’ve been wrong about something I believed,” Philomath admitted. “It can feel like betrayal—like the world betrayed me or I betrayed myself.”

  Cato reached for his tea again, sipping slowly. “Welcome to the universal struggle of the conscious mind. Self-betrayal is a harsh teacher, but it does teach. And the world betrays no one; it merely follows its course, indifferent to our attachments. We’re the ones who map expectations onto it, and then curse when they fall short.”

  “Does that mean all of us are victims of our own illusions?” Philomath’s voice quivered with a quiet intensity.

  “Victims, or participants,” Cato corrected. “I prefer to see people as active participants in their illusions. We concoct them, we feed them, and when the illusions evaporate, we get angry. But we were the authors. Isn’t that a contradiction? That we create illusions to sustain us, and then feel betrayed when they fade away?”

  “That contradiction actually makes a lot of sense,” Philomath said after a moment. He fell silent when the waitress returned with a fresh pot of tea and a small plate of pastries, setting them down with an effortless smile. Philomath thanked her politely, but his mind was elsewhere.

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  “You know,” he continued once she left, “I’m still trying to figure out if I should be grateful for illusions. I have ambitions—university, traveling, maybe helping society in some big way. Am I setting myself up for heartbreak?”

  Cato gave him a sober look. “Quite possibly, but heartbreak is unavoidable. And heartbreak itself can be instructive, if you don’t let it break you entirely. Cultivate your ambitions. See how far they take you. Just understand that heartbreak and disappointment are natural companions on the journey. Don’t let that paralyze you, though. Accept it as part of the human condition.”

  Philomath lifted his teacup, momentarily gazing at the small swirl inside. “You make me think everything is ephemeral,” he said.

  “It is ephemeral,” Cato said, chewing slowly on a corner of pastry. “The question is whether knowing that ephemerality should deter you from living deeply. Some might recoil, trying to preserve themselves from pain. Others plunge in with fervor, savoring each fleeting delight. I’ve done both in my life. In the end, I suppose I found a middle path. I’m too pessimistic to surrender myself wholly to illusions, yet too attached to certain comforts to discard them entirely.”

  Philomath set his cup down again, leaning forward with an earnest expression. “Tell me something: do you ever regret not living with more illusions? Maybe if you believed more, you would have found more joy.”

  A pained smile creased Cato’s face. “Regret, dear boy, is the shadow that follows awareness. One cannot tread this earth for nearly a century and not feel regret’s weight. But do I regret being so cautious with illusions? Perhaps at times. I might have allowed myself more unbridled hope in love, in grand ventures, in friendships. But then, illusions can burn you. And I’ve avoided certain flames by not stepping too close.”

  “Does that mean you’ve avoided some joys as well?”

  Cato waved a hand dismissively. “No doubt. But that’s the nature of life: in chasing safety, you forgo certain joys; in chasing joys, you risk the bite of sorrow. There’s no perfect ratio, no magical formula that grants you just enough illusions to remain content yet never disillusioned. So you do your best, you learn from your mistakes, and you accumulate regrets either way. It’s the tax we pay for consciousness.”

  Philomath gave a slow nod, his gaze growing distant. “It’s so strange, hearing you speak of illusions this way. There’s a gravity in your words, but also a sense of… calm acceptance. It’s like you’re neither elated nor devastated by the ephemeral nature of everything. You seem to have settled into this mental place of resigned clarity.”

  “And it took me many decades to get here,” Cato said with a short laugh that held a note of sadness. “Don’t try to leap to that place too quickly. If you try to adopt the stance of an old man, you might rob yourself of essential experiences. A bit of recklessness in youth is necessary. How else will you gather the requisite heartbreaks and revelations that eventually deepen your wisdom?”

  Philomath grinned despite himself. “So now you’re encouraging me to go out and get my heart broken, is that it?”

  “Why not? You have a heart. It will break eventually, no matter what you do. Might as well embrace what life tosses your way. Love fiercely, fail dramatically, pick yourself up, contemplate, grow. Avoiding heartbreak out of fear is as foolish as jumping into heartbreak just to feel something. There’s a balance in everything.”

  Philomath found himself laughing, almost giddy with a strange sense of liberation. “It feels like you’re giving me permission to make mistakes,” he said.

  Cato nodded. “That’s one way to put it. Mistakes are teachers. If there’s one advantage to youth, it’s that you have time to absorb the lessons. For me, mistakes were sometimes catastrophic. But through them, I learned about the illusions I’d been worshipping. Each disappointment peeled away a layer of fantasy, revealing life in its raw shape.”

  “That raw shape terrifies me sometimes,” Philomath admitted, pressing the edge of his thumbnail against the table. “I want to hold onto optimism, keep believing that things will turn out all right. But your words make me question everything. And I’m not sure if I should be thanking you for that or blaming you.”

  Cato’s old eyes twinkled. “Blame me if you wish. It won’t change the truth. The raw shape of life terrifies everyone who sees it. But it’s not all darkness. Once you stop expecting eternal gratification, the small sparks of brightness become more precious. A simple cup of tea, a genuine smile from a stranger, a sudden moment of insight—all these fleeting things can be enough, if you aren’t burdened by colossal expectations.”

  Philomath rubbed his temples, his thoughts whirling. “I can see the logic, yet a part of me yearns for something grander—a big destiny or a big purpose. I’ve read about people who changed the world. Isn’t that worth pursuing?”

  Cato shrugged. “Yes, if you must. Some people do grand things. But they, too, contend with illusions. Perhaps they believed they were chosen, or that their achievements would outlast the ages. History itself is just a string of illusions retold and reshaped, soon forgotten by the next generation. If you want to chase a grand dream, chase it, but don’t assume the dream is immortal.”

  “That’s depressing,” Philomath said, laughing softly in spite of the weight.

  “Most things are depressing when you peer behind the curtain,” Cato replied calmly, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t peer. Knowledge of illusions is ironically part of wisdom. It can lead to a subdued joy, a tempered approach to living.”

  “Tempered joy,” Philomath repeated. “I like the sound of that, though it’s also a little sad. You have a way of weaving sadness into everything you say.”

  “You’d be sad too if you had outlived most of your friends, your spouse, and nearly everyone else you once knew,” Cato said quietly, pain flickering across his features. “Longevity is not the gift people imagine. The world grows emptier in certain respects. However, let’s not dwell on that. Let’s dwell instead on the life you have yet to explore. You might find it glorious or grueling—or both.”

  “It’s humbling,” Philomath said, fiddling with a spoon. “I keep looking at you and realizing you’ve had these decades to form your outlook. And I’m at the beginning. Sometimes I feel like I know a lot; then I speak to you and it’s like I know nothing.”

  Cato laughed softly. “Knowing you know nothing—that is a valuable awareness. You’re far ahead of many who remain confident in their illusions. This is not to say you shouldn’t learn, read, or expand your mind. Just be prepared for constant revision of what you think is true. Even now, in my advanced age, I find myself occasionally startled by some new perspective.”

  Philomath squared his shoulders. “So your life lessons are basically: illusions are inevitable, heartbreak is inevitable, knowledge is both a burden and a blessing, and we should walk with caution but also not fear diving in. Did I summarize that correctly?”

  “You’ve captured much of it,” Cato said with mild amusement. “I’d add one more thing: acceptance of the impermanence. That is key. Everything passes. Joy passes, sorrow passes. If you learn to see them as passing clouds, you’ll suffer less when they fade.”

  Philomath exhaled, glancing at the clock on the cafe wall. He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like I should be in school, learning algebra, instead of wrestling with existential questions in a cafe. But you fascinate me. I keep coming back for more, even though you rattle me to my core.”

  “A healthy young mind thrives on being rattled,” Cato said. “Algebra won’t vanish because you spent a morning pondering life. And who’s to say these reflections won’t help you see mathematics, or anything else, in a more profound way?”

  Philomath smiled. “You know, I was reading about how truth can set you free, but no one warned me that truth can also scare you half to death.”

  “Freedom and fear often walk hand in hand,” Cato said, brushing some pastry crumbs from his chin. “One must learn to coexist with both. You might find that you become braver when you accept that fear never leaves entirely.”

  They shared a moment of silence, each lost in his own currents of thought. Outside, a faint breeze stirred the leaves of a potted plant near the cafe’s entrance. The quiet hush of the morning patrons continued, punctuated by soft conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine.

  Philomath finally spoke. “If you could go back and choose a different way of thinking, would you choose a more hopeful, more naive approach?”

  Cato looked at the boy with a gentle expression. “I’ve asked myself that many times, and I always conclude that I don’t really know. Perhaps I envy those who walk around with bright illusions. They seem content, if only temporarily. But illusions hurt when they break, and they always break. With clarity, though, you feel the weight of existence. No approach spares you from suffering. We just choose different forms of it.”

  “Strange to think we can’t escape suffering,” Philomath murmured. “But I guess that’s life.”

  “Suffering is woven into life’s fabric,” Cato affirmed, his voice low. “And so is wonder, if you know where to look. One does not negate the other. I’m not claiming existence is purely grim. I’m claiming existence is complicated—equal parts heartbreak and marvel, cynicism and hope, illusion and clarity. I pity those who try to paint it in black and white.”

  Philomath glanced at the pastries with fleeting interest, then returned his gaze to Cato. “You said heartbreak is unavoidable. Do you think heartbreak, ironically, leads us to be more compassionate people? Or does it just fill us with bitterness?”

  “Both outcomes are possible,” Cato replied. “Some become kinder, forging empathy from their pain. Others become resentful, letting heartbreak poison them. Your response is not dictated by heartbreak itself, but by how you process it. If you grow from it, you become more compassionate. If you wallow, bitterness festers.”

  “I hope I learn to be compassionate,” Philomath said softly. “I don’t want to end up bitter.”

  “I suspect your curiosity and reflective spirit will steer you well,” Cato said with the faintest hint of warmth. “You might carry pockets of bitterness; everyone does. But as long as you keep questioning, you’ll find ways to transform bitterness into insight.”

  Philomath took a final sip of his tea, noticing how the warmth slid down his throat, centering him. “I think I’d better go soon,” he said, gesturing to the clock. “I have to catch up on some schoolwork. But… I feel I learned more from this conversation than I might in a dozen lessons of standard curriculum.”

  “School teaches you how to function in the world,” Cato answered, “but these discussions teach you to question the world itself. Both are necessary. Don’t neglect one for the other.”

  Philomath gave a slow, appreciative nod. “I’ll remember that. You’ve given me a lot to think about— illusions, heartbreak, acceptance of impermanence. Honestly, it’s dark in some ways, but I find it oddly exhilarating. Like I’m peering behind the scenes, seeing how the machinery of life turns.”

  “Dark, yes,” Cato conceded, closing his eyes briefly. “But enlightenment often arises in the dark corners we fear to explore. Don’t be afraid, dear boy. That’s my final piece of advice to you: do not be afraid of the questions. Let them guide you. Let them shape you. Just don’t expect them to disappear.”

  Philomath stood up, pulling on his jacket. “Thank you for your time, Cato. I’ll come by again soon. I want to hear more of your thoughts—and maybe someday I’ll share some of my own fresh illusions, see if they amuse you.”

  “I’ll be here,” Cato said. “I’m old, but I’m not gone yet. I look forward to seeing what illusions you spin and which ones you scatter.”

  Philomath laughed, though there was a tinge of melancholy in the sound. “You’ve definitely changed how I see the world. I’m not sure if I’ll sleep easily tonight or if I’ll be up for hours thinking, but either way, I’m grateful.”

  Cato gave him one last nod, his gaze returning to the still-steaming tea. “Wrestle with those thoughts. Don’t hide from them. I’ll be eager to hear your newest revelations next time.”

  II

  Philomath walked through the bustling streets, his mind still tangled in the web of thoughts his great-grandfather had spun. The words hung in his mind like lanterns in a dark room—illusions, heartbreak, impermanence, the quiet resignation of an old man who had seen the rise and fall of every grand belief. And yet, something in him resisted complete submission to that worldview. It was a heavy garment to wear, this clarity, but did it have to be worn so tightly? He didn’t know. He only knew that his soul felt unsettled, pulled between the gravity of Cato’s wisdom and some unshaken, stubborn light that burned within him.

  By the time he reached home, the afternoon had stretched long, the sun casting golden warmth over the garden. It was a beautiful space, carefully tended by his mother, Sophia—a sanctuary of green life and bright blossoms, of winding stone paths and the soft hush of leaves stirred by the wind. It was the opposite of Cato’s world. Here, things grew, they didn’t wither. Here, sunlight played on petals and fruit ripened on the branch. It was a place where even thoughts seemed to unfurl rather than shrink into themselves.

  Sophia sat on a wooden bench, a book resting in her lap, but she wasn’t reading. She was gazing at the orange tree in front of her, the tips of her fingers lightly grazing its leaves as if she were listening to something imperceptible. When Philomath stepped onto the path, she turned her face toward him with that quiet, knowing smile she always had, the kind that made you feel you had already been understood before you even spoke.

  “You look as though you’ve just returned from battle,” she mused, closing her book. “Though, knowing where you’ve been, I assume the battlefield was philosophical.”

  Philomath exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat down beside her. “Great-grandfather has a way of making the world feel like a very dark and uncertain place.”

  Sophia tilted her head slightly, amusement flickering in her eyes. “And you didn’t already think that on your own?”

  “I thought it, sure, but not like him. Not with such certainty. He makes it sound like all hope is self-deception. That everything we love, everything we strive for, is just—” He struggled to find the words. “Just another illusion. Something waiting to disappoint us.”

  Sophia nodded, not in agreement but in understanding. “He is a man who has lived a long time. And when you live long enough, you start to see the ways things fade. People, beliefs, dreams. I understand his perspective.”

  Philomath turned his gaze toward her, expectant. “But you don’t share it.”

  “No,” she said simply, reaching down to brush a fallen leaf from her lap. “I don’t.”

  There was something so steady in her, something that never wavered. It was different from Cato’s hardened clarity—it was a clarity, too, but of a gentler kind, one that didn’t cut so sharply.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  She took a slow breath, looking up at the branches above them. “Because I don’t believe that illusions are only there to betray us. I think we need them, but not in the way he describes. He sees them as crutches, ways we lie to ourselves so that we don’t fall into despair. But I see them as bridges, ways we reach toward something greater than ourselves. Even if they’re not permanent, even if they shift and change over time, they still bring us somewhere. And sometimes, they make the journey worthwhile.”

  “But what if that ‘something greater’ isn’t real?” Philomath challenged. “What if we’re chasing dreams that mean nothing in the end?”

  Sophia turned to him with a softness in her gaze that made his chest ache. “Then we still lived chasing something beautiful. And isn’t that worth something? Not everything must last forever to be meaningful.”

  Philomath looked down at his hands, trying to reconcile this with Cato’s vision of the world. “Great-grandfather thinks suffering is the true nature of life. That we just fill it with distractions to keep from seeing that.”

  Sophia sighed, but it wasn’t a heavy sigh—it was light, almost amused. “Yes, well, suffering is certainly real. I would never deny that. But to define life by suffering alone is like saying a garden is defined by its weeds. They’re there, yes, but they are not the whole of it.”

  Philomath frowned, thinking. “But people suffer more than they don’t. You can’t argue that.”

  “No, I won’t argue that,” she admitted, folding her hands in her lap. “But I will argue this: suffering is not the only thing that deepens us. Love does. Joy does. Curiosity does. Growth does. And here is where I think your great-grandfather is wrong—he believes illusions keep us from suffering. I believe they help us transform it.”

  “Transform it?”

  “Yes,” she said, eyes glimmering. “Think of it this way. A poet takes sorrow and turns it into something beautiful. A mother endures pain and turns it into love for her child. A thinker wrestles with despair and turns it into wisdom. We do not only suffer. We create. We find meaning in what hurts. We don’t merely endure; we transcend.”

  Philomath stared at her, struck by the sheer conviction in her voice. It wasn’t the naive optimism of someone who refused to see the world’s darkness. It was something stronger than that—something rooted, unwavering. She had seen darkness, and yet she had chosen light.

  “So you think meaning exists?” he asked quietly.

  “I think we make meaning,” she corrected. “And in making it, we make our lives worth living. Not because the universe demands it of us, but because we do.”

  Philomath let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know who to believe. Cato’s realism feels like the truth, but your way—your way makes me want to believe in something.”

  Sophia reached over and brushed a stray curl from his forehead, the way she had since he was small. “Then perhaps both have a place. There is truth in what he says. And there is truth in what I say. Wisdom is knowing when to listen to each.”

  Then, from the street, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. The sudden burst of laughter, the high, delighted voice of an eight-year-old girl.

  Philomath turned just in time to see the car door swing open and Alisa tumble out, her tiny frame bursting with energy as she ran toward them. “Mama! Phil! Guess what? Guess what?”

  Antonius stepped out after her, closing the car door with a patient smile, his presence always one of quiet strength. He met Sophia’s eyes from across the garden, and in that single glance, there was an entire world of understanding between them.

  Alisa launched herself into his arms, and he caught her, laughing despite himself.

  “Alright, alright,” he said, ruffling her hair. “Tell me. What’s so exciting?”

  She pulled back, eyes wide with wonder. “I learned something new today! Something really, really important!”

  Philomath grinned. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  Alisa took a deep breath, standing up as tall as her small frame would allow. “I learned that even the stars we see in the sky are already gone by the time their light reaches us! Isn’t that crazy?”

  Philomath’s breath hitched for a second, the weight of those words sinking into him. He glanced at Sophia, who only smiled knowingly.

  “Yes, Alisa,” he said, holding her hand. “That is crazy.”