The Journey to Eternity — Chapter Twenty: The Truth I Did Not Want to Remember

Chapter Twenty of my book, The Journey to Eternity, shared here chapter by chapter as I write it. Earlier chapters: Chapter One · Chapter Two · Chapter Three · Chapter Four · Chapter Five · Chapter Six · Chapter Seven · Chapter Eight · Chapter Nine · Chapter Ten · Chapter Eleven · Chapter Twelve · Chapter Thirteen · Chapter Fourteen · Chapter Fifteen · Chapter Sixteen · Chapter Seventeen · Chapter Eighteen · Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty: The Truth I Did Not Want to Remember

On the way back to the City of Consciousnesses, I did not speak.

Liara moved beside me, and Sahar walked a little ahead of us. He had chosen the long way, the one that passed among the ancient roots of the Tree, because his body did not allow him to move from place to place by the power of thought alone, as we did.

I was grateful for that slowness.

I did not want to arrive quickly.

Since I left my body, almost every discovery had stirred in me a desire to know more. Even when the answers frightened me, curiosity was stronger than fear. But this time there was something different in what I had heard.

You were supposed to open it. But when you heard what would happen to those who came out, you chose to leave us inside.

I could not stop thinking about that sentence.

In my human life I always believed that a person should ask himself whether he is acting justly. Not only when he harms someone deliberately, but precisely when he is convinced he is doing the right thing.

And yet, when I heard that I might have been responsible for the imprisonment of other consciousnesses, the first thing I wanted to do was find an explanation that would justify me.

That thought embarrassed me.

I did not yet know what had happened, and already I was looking for a way to forgive myself.

"You may ask me," Liara said.

I looked at her.

"What?"

"The question you are trying not to ask."

I was silent for a moment.

"Do you think I am capable of doing such a thing? Leaving others imprisoned in order to protect them from themselves?"

She did not answer at once.

"I think that any consciousness that believes it understands danger better than others is capable of reaching such a decision."

"You too?"

"Me too."

I looked at her in surprise.

"And what stops you?"

"Not always something stops me. Sometimes only the knowledge that I might be wrong."

She continued beside me.

"The problem does not begin when we want to protect someone. It begins when we stop asking whether he agrees to our protecting him in the way we have chosen."

I thought of my children.

How many times had I made decisions for them because I knew they were still too young to understand their consequences. That was part of my responsibility as a mother.

But what happens when they grow up?

At what moment does protection become interference?

And when does love, which seeks to keep another person safe, begin to limit his life?

I did not know.

The difference between responsibility and control seemed clear when I spoke of it in general terms.

It became much hazier when I thought of the people I loved.

Adara was waiting for us in the ancient library of records.

We found her in the room with the open window, beside the same wooden table on which three cups of water had stood. This time there was only one cup.

She sat reading from a transparent tablet, and when we entered she set it down before her.

"You returned earlier than I expected."

Sahar remained by the door.

Liara moved closer to the window.

I stood facing Adara.

"I spoke with Echada."

I saw the change in her face.

It was small, but clear.

"I know."

"She told me that you are her sister."

Adara lowered her gaze.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I did not think it was the most important thing you would need to know about me."

"But it is important. You carried the memories of the disconnected consciousnesses. Echada tried to save you, and her attempt caused harm to others. That is not a marginal detail."

Adara was silent.

I moved closer to the table.

"And now I heard a voice saying that I was the one who closed the door on them."

She raised her head.

"Who told you that?"

"One of the consciousnesses beyond the dark space."

"Did you see her?"

"No."

"Do you know who she is?"

"No."

"Then you still do not know whether the things are true."

I felt anger.

"I don't want you to explain to me why I must not believe her. I want you to tell me what you know."

Adara looked at me for a long time.

At last she rose.

"Come."

She led us to a hall I had not seen on my previous visit.

It was narrow and long, and its walls seemed made of black stone. No globes of light floated in it, and none of the intricate script-signs I knew from the library were visible in it.

Along one of its walls stood dozens of dark slabs.

Each of them was the height of a person.

"These are records of decisions," Adara said.

"What is the difference between them and the memories in the library?"

"A memory tells how an event was experienced. A record of a decision is meant to preserve what was decided, who consented, and what conditions were set."

She stopped before a wide slab.

"These too are not perfect. Whoever created them could have been mistaken, could have lied, or could have omitted information. But they allow us to compare what people remember with what was actually done."

I remembered Nema, the keeper of the library in the city, and her warnings about memories that seem true even as they change.

"I want to see the decision about closing the door."

Adara placed her hand on the slab.

It lit up.

Dense rows appeared on its surface, and among them signs I did not recognize.

"The decision was made in a period when there were already many consciousnesses in the disconnected space," she said. "Some of them had arrived there following the unification attempt. Others entered it of their own will, to help those who remained inside."

"And I was there?"

"A consciousness bearing a continuum similar to the one you carry today was among the participants."

"I want to see her."

Adara looked at me.

"It is possible. But you must remember that you are watching a record, not returning to yourself."

I nodded.

She opened the record.

The hall vanished from my eyes.

I found myself facing a large room with a long table. Around it stood seven figures, some of them human in form and others made of shifting light.

I did not feel that I was inside one of them.

I stood to the side, as an observer.

Beyond a transparent wall, darkness could be seen, and within it hundreds of points of light moved.

I heard voices.

They were not clear.

Some of them called for help.

Others asked for the passage to be opened.

One of the figures by the table pointed at the wall.

"If we open the gate fully, they will be able to come out."

Another figure answered:

"Not all of them. Some can no longer maintain independent boundaries. They will cling to the first consciousness they meet."

"Then we will help them separate."

"We do not know how."

The figures began speaking one after another.

There was no shared voice among them.

They argued.

Some demanded that the passage be opened at once. Others warned that this could cause a new unification, larger and more dangerous than the previous one.

Then I noticed the figure standing at the end of the table.

She was very bright.

She had no human face, but something in the way she listened was familiar to me.

She did not intervene in the argument.

She only stood and looked at the voices beyond the wall.

At last she spoke.

"We cannot leave them there without a time limit."

I felt a tremor in my consciousness.

Her voice resembled mine.

Not the human voice with which I had spoken to my children.

The voice I had heard within me since I left the body.

One of the figures turned to her.

"So you propose opening it?"

"I propose that we not decide before we know what will happen to them."

"We have no time."

"If we have no time to understand, that does not make our decision right."

The second figure answered angrily:

"And if, while we are examining, they continue to suffer?"

The bright figure was silent.

I felt her deliberation.

Not because I shared her thoughts, but because I recognized it from my human life.

It was exactly the kind of decision I feared.

A situation in which every option involves harming someone.

The picture changed.

The same room.

The same table.

But this time there were only four figures in it.

One of them was Eliya.

I recognized the reddish light around her.

She stood by the transparent window and looked at the dark space.

"I spoke with them," she said.

The bright figure came closer.

"With how many?"

"With enough to know that they do not all want the same thing."

I felt a strange relief.

Someone had asked them.

"Some want to come out at once," Eliya continued. "Others ask that we wait. And there are some who do not understand at all what it means to come out."

"Then we will open a gradual passage."

Eliya shook her head.

"We tried. When the passage opened, the consciousnesses near it were drawn toward those standing outside. One of them nearly lost herself."

The bright figure looked at the wall.

"The boundaries can be strengthened."

"Perhaps. But not today."

The bright figure moved closer to the window.

Beyond it a small light appeared.

It moved toward the glass.

For a moment I heard a clear voice.

"I want to come out."

The bright figure raised her hand.

"I hear you."

"Then open it."

She did not answer.

"Please."

The voice grew weaker.

"I know what you are saying. I know there is danger. But I want to try."

The bright figure stood motionless.

I felt pain.

It was not my memory.

But I could understand the place where she stood.

Someone was asking her to open.

And she was afraid that by doing so she would kill him.

The picture vanished.

I stood again in the stone hall.

Adara was beside me.

"Is that all there is?" I asked.

"No."

"Then continue."

She looked at me.

"The decision itself is harder to watch."

"I want to see it."

Adara placed her hand on the slab again.

This time the room was full.

The seven figures stood around the table.

On its surface two symbols appeared.

An open gate.

A closed gate.

Beneath each of them, rows of light moved.

One of the figures spoke.

"If we open the passage now, we estimate that some of the consciousnesses will succeed in coming out. But we cannot know how many of them will remain independent."

Another figure answered:

"If we close it, we are sentencing them to continued isolation."

"Until we find a safe way."

"And how long will that take?"

No one answered.

The bright figure stood before the table.

She looked tired.

Eliya stood behind her.

"We have a third proposal," said the bright figure.

Everyone turned to her.

"We will leave the gate closed, but we will create a narrow channel of contact. We will not allow free passage, but we will be able to speak with the consciousnesses and learn how to strengthen their boundaries."

"How long will it require?"

"I do not know."

"And if the channel fails?"

"We will have to find another way."

The figure standing at the head of the table looked at her.

"Are you willing to bear responsibility for this decision?"

The bright figure answered:

"Yes."

Then seven points of light appeared on the table.

Each of the figures was asked to choose.

Four points moved toward the closed gate.

Two toward the open gate.

One remained in the middle.

The bright figure was among the four who chose to close.

The decision was made.

Beyond the wall, voices were heard.

Some of them weakened.

Others grew stronger.

Then the gate closed.

I saw a small light move toward it at the last moment.

It stopped before the door.

"But you promised you would open it."

The bright figure did not answer.

"You said you would help me come out."

She moved closer to the door.

She placed her hand on it.

"I will find a way."

"When?"

The figure was silent.

The voice beyond the door asked again:

"When?"

And she had no answer.

The record ended.

I stood before the slab and could not speak.

Not because I was surprised.

But because everything was simpler than I had hoped, and harder than I had feared.

I did not see a cruel figure.

I did not see someone who wanted to control others.

I saw a consciousness that was afraid of causing harm, and chose the option that seemed safer to her.

But I also heard the voice beyond the door.

You said you would help me come out.

A promise given with good intention.

A promise that was not kept.

"What happened to the channel of contact we promised to create?" I asked.

Adara lowered her gaze.

"It worked for a short time."

"And afterward?"

"The system identified through it an attempt to create a wider connection. It closed it."

"And we tried again?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Many."

"And why did they remain there for ages?"

Adara looked at me.

"Because every failed attempt made the system more suspicious. With time the passages closed, and the records were scattered. Those who knew how to operate them vanished or lost part of their memories."

"And me?"

"You left."

I looked at her.

"Why?"

"I do not know."

"You don't remember?"

"I remember that there was a decision to leave this space and look for another way. I remember Eliya. And I remember a promise to return. But I do not know what happened afterward."

I remembered the room with the two windows.

The words I had heard there.

If I return, I will look for you.

I no longer knew whether the promise was connected to Eliya, to the imprisoned consciousnesses, or to both.

Perhaps I had promised too many things.

"I want to know who the consciousness was that spoke to me beyond the door," I said.

Adara looked at the slab.

"It may be possible to find her record."

She touched a small symbol.

Many points of light appeared on the stone's surface.

One of them grew stronger.

I saw a small form, almost without boundaries.

Adara read the signs.

"She has no preserved name. Only a marking of a consciousness continuum."

"Does she still exist?"

"The record does not know."

I thought of the voice I had heard a short while ago.

Was it the same consciousness?

Had she waited all this time?

"Can she be reached?"

Adara hesitated.

"Perhaps. But not from here."

"From where?"

"From the passage you opened to the disconnected space."

I looked at Liara.

She came closer.

"Before you try, there is something you need to understand."

"What?"

"If it is the same consciousness, she may be angry at you."

"She has reason."

"Yes. But you do not have to accept everything she says about you as absolute truth."

I looked at her.

"I know."

Liara shook her head.

"I am not sure. Since you heard the accusation, you have been trying to find a way to take all the responsibility upon yourself."

I was silent.

"Responsibility is not the same as guilt," she continued. "And guilt is not necessarily proof that a better option was in your hands."

I thought of the vote.

Of the seven figures.

Of four who chose to close.

Of two who chose to open.

And of one who did not decide.

I was not the only one who decided.

But I was one of them.

And that was enough to make me need to ask what can be done now.

I asked Adara to open the record of the decision again.

This time I did not want to see the vote.

I wanted to see what came before it.

The discussion.

The questions.

The assessments.

Adara agreed.

We stood before the slab for a long time.

I saw consciousnesses examining the passage.

I saw attempts in which small lights came out of the dark space.

Some of them succeeded in remaining separate.

Others clung to the consciousnesses waiting for them outside.

In one of the attempts, a consciousness that came out began speaking in the voices of three others.

She could not distinguish between them.

I saw the fear of those standing around her.

I saw how they tried to help her.

In the end they succeeded in separating part of the connection.

But not all of it.

She remained confused.

At that moment I understood that the danger had not been imaginary.

Those who chose to close the gate had not invented it in order to justify their decision.

But then I saw something else.

One of the records documented an attempt in which one consciousness succeeded in coming out and keeping herself.

She moved freely.

Spoke.

Remembered who she was.

And clung to no one.

I looked at Adara.

"Why didn't they continue in that way?"

She examined the record.

"Because they did not succeed in reproducing the conditions."

"But they succeeded once."

"Yes."

"Then we knew it was possible."

Adara was silent.

I looked again at the small light.

It moved calmly among the figures.

"Perhaps instead of asking how dangerous it is to open, we should have asked what could be learned from the one who succeeded in coming out."

Adara looked at the record.

"They asked that too."

"But they didn't wait for the answer."

She did not reply.

I did not know whether the things I said were fair.

I was there now, after everything that had happened, with knowledge they did not have then.

It is easier to recognize a missed possibility when you already know what the price was.

And yet, I felt the question was important.

Perhaps the problem was not only in the decision to close.

Perhaps the problem was that at a certain point we stopped searching with the same determination with which we tried to prevent danger.

I left the slab and moved closer to the window.

I did not know how much time had passed since I arrived at the library.

In this space there was no morning and no evening, but my human body would now have remembered tiredness.

I would have sat down.

Drunk water.

Perhaps gone out for a short walk in order to think.

Now I had no need of any of these.

And yet I missed them.

I missed the possibility of setting the thoughts down.

Not because the problem had been solved, but because the body needed rest.

Eternity allowed me to go on thinking without pause.

I was not sure that was always an advantage.

Liara stood beside me.

"What do you feel?" she asked.

"I don't know if I am angry at myself or feel pity for who I was."

"You do not have to choose."

I looked at her.

"I think she was afraid."

"Probably."

"She wanted to protect them."

"Yes."

"And she left them there."

Liara nodded.

"That too is true."

We were silent.

"So how can one live with both of these truths?" I asked.

"Without erasing either of them."

I looked at her.

She continued:

"If you tell yourself that everything was done out of love, you may ignore the harm. And if you tell yourself that you were cruel, you may ignore the real danger that stood before you."

I thought about that.

"So what remains?"

"To understand what happened as much as possible, to listen to those who were harmed, and to choose what to do now."

I asked to remain alone.

Liara and Sahar left the hall.

Adara remained by the door.

"Is there something else you want to see?" she asked.

I looked at the slab.

"Yes."

"What?"

"The moment when that figure left."

Adara looked surprised.

"Why that moment, of all of them?"

"Because I want to know whether she left in order to find a solution, or because she could not bear what she had done."

Adara moved closer to the slab.

"We do not have a complete record."

"Show me what there is."

She nodded.

I saw again the room with the two windows.

The black sea moved beyond one of them.

The second window was empty.

Eliya stood by the table.

The bright figure stood facing her.

In her hand was a silver leaf.

"I cannot stay here," said the bright figure.

Eliya looked at her.

"Because you want to find another way?"

The figure was silent.

"Or because you can no longer bear to hear them?"

I felt the question strike me.

The bright figure lowered her head.

"I do not know."

Eliya came closer.

"Then do not promise me that you are returning only to save them."

The bright figure raised her gaze.

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

Silence fell.

At last the bright figure said:

"I want to get away. I want to stop hearing the voices. And I also want to find a way to open the door without harming them."

Eliya looked at her for a long time.

"Then perhaps all of these things are true."

The bright figure nodded.

"I am afraid that if I stay, I will stop trying."

"And if you leave?"

"I am afraid I will forget why I went out."

Eliya extended her hand.

"Then let me remember for you."

The bright figure looked at her.

"And if I do not return?"

Eliya answered quietly:

"I will wait until I know whether you chose not to return, or whether you cannot."

The bright figure placed the silver leaf in her hand.

"If I return, I will look for you."

"And I promise that I will listen before I decide," said Eliya.

The bright figure smiled.

"And I promise that I will not ask you to carry for me everything I am unable to remember."

The vision began to blur.

Before it vanished, I heard Eliya asking:

"Do you still believe this can be repaired?"

The bright figure looked at the empty window.

"I do not know. But I do not want our last decision to be to leave the door closed."

When the record ended, I remained for a long time before the slab.

Now I understood something about Eliya that I had not understood before.

She had not waited only for someone she loved.

She had remained with the memory of a promise she did not know would be kept.

And perhaps, throughout all those years, she too had wondered whether her waiting was loyalty or fear of moving on.

I wanted to meet her.

Not so that she would tell me who I was.

But to ask who she had become while I was not there.

Adara was still standing by the door.

"Do you think that figure really returned to the human world?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And she forgot?"

"A large part of her memories vanished or changed."

"Then why did the desire to search remain in me?"

Adara came closer to me.

"Perhaps because not everything we learn is preserved as a thought that can be recalled. Sometimes something changes in the way we choose, even when we do not remember what taught us to choose so."

I thought of my life.

Of the way I was always drawn to questions that have no simple answer.

Of the desire to understand what lies beyond what can be seen.

Of the times I felt the world was too wide to make do with the explanations I had received.

Perhaps there was nothing mysterious in that.

Perhaps it was simply my personality.

But now I could not ignore the possibility that part of the search began long before I was born.

"I want to speak with the consciousness beyond the door," I said.

Adara nodded.

"I will come with you."

"No."

She looked at me.

"Why?"

"Because I do not want her to feel that I am arriving with people who can explain in my name what happened."

Adara was silent.

"I want to listen to her myself."

At last she nodded.

"Then Liara can help you keep the boundaries."

"Yes."

I returned to the passage where I had first heard the voices.

Liara stood a small distance from me.

This time I carried no object.

There was no need.

The connection already existed.

I closed what remained in me of the human habit of closing my eyes, and turned my attention to the dark space.

At first I heard many voices.

They spoke with one another.

Some asked questions.

Others told of sensations they remembered.

There was movement among them.

Life.

Then I asked to speak with the consciousness who remembered the door.

The voices weakened.

After a while a quiet voice was heard.

"You returned."

"Yes."

"Do you remember now?"

"I saw records."

"Then you know."

I hesitated.

"I know that I was among those who decided to leave the door closed."

Silence fell.

"Do you still think it was the right decision?"

I thought of what I had seen.

Of the consciousnesses who were harmed when they tried to come out.

Of those who succeeded.

Of the promises.

Of the years that had passed.

"I think there was a real danger," I answered. "But I do not know whether we had the right to decide for all of you."

Silence fell.

"I also do not know whether we could have done something else."

"You could have opened."

"Yes."

"You chose not to open."

"Yes."

A long silence fell.

Then the voice was heard again.

"Do you know what was the hardest thing?"

"No."

"Not the darkness."

I waited.

"Nor the loneliness."

I felt the voice coming closer.

"The hardest thing was that we knew you could hear us."

I did not answer.

"When someone does not know we exist, it is at least possible to understand why he does not help. But you knew. You heard us. You promised to return."

I felt the words deep within me.

"I know."

"No. You are only beginning to know."

She was right.

I wanted to ask for forgiveness.

The words were already ready.

But I stopped.

What does forgiveness mean when I cannot give her back the time she lost?

Would my asking for forgiveness ease her, or only allow me to feel a little better?

"I am sorry for what happened," I said at last. "And for the fact that a promise given to you was not kept."

The voice was silent.

"I am not asking you to forgive me."

A long time passed.

Then an answer was heard.

"Good."

I was surprised.

"Why?"

"Because I do not know whether I want to forgive."

"You do not have to."

I felt the voice move a little away.

Then it returned.

"Can you still open the door?"

I looked at Liara.

She did not intervene.

"I do not yet know how to do that without endangering you."

"So again you are saying we will wait."

The words struck me.

She was right.

Again I stood before a consciousness that wanted to come out.

And again I had no safe way.

But this time there was one difference.

I did not want to make do with deciding for all of them.

"I want to ask you something," I said.

"What?"

"If we can open a small passage, in which one consciousness could come out and return if she wishes, would you be willing to take part in an attempt?"

The voice was silent.

"I do not promise we will succeed," I added. "And I do not promise there will be no danger. But I want us to decide together how to try."

A long silence fell.

At last an answer was heard.

"I want to know what might happen to me."

"I will tell you everything we know."

"And if I choose to come out despite the danger?"

I felt the question approaching the place where I had stood in the past.

The door.

The decision.

The fear.

I did not yet know what I would do.

But I knew I must not answer only in order to soothe her.

"Then we will have to examine whether your choice is free and understood by you, and whether it might harm others as well."

The voice was silent.

"And if the danger is only to me?"

I looked into the darkness.

I had no simple answer.

But this time I did not try to hide it.

"Then I think I will not be able to decide in your place only because I am afraid."

The connection remained open.

The voice asked for nothing more.

After a while the consciousness said:

"I want you to know something."

"What?"

"I am not the same consciousness I was when the door closed."

I listened.

"I thought about you a great deal. I was angry. I waited. Sometimes I wanted you to come. Sometimes I wanted never to see you again."

She paused.

"But lately I began speaking with the others."

"I know."

"I discovered that they have memories I do not have. Thoughts I did not think. Even things I do not agree with."

I felt a cautious joy.

"And how does that feel?"

"Strange."

For a moment I heard something like laughter.

"Sometimes it is annoying."

I smiled.

"I know that feeling."

"But I want to continue."

She was silent.

"Even if I do not succeed in coming out soon."

I felt the meaning of her words.

She had not given up her freedom.

She had not forgiven me.

She had not forgotten the promise.

But she had begun creating a life in the place where she was, too.

"What is your name?" I asked.

The voice paused.

"Once I had a name. I do not remember it."

"Do you want to choose a new name?"

She thought.

"Perhaps."

"There is no need now."

"I know."

The voice moved a little away.

"I want to choose it myself."

"Of course."

Then, before the connection weakened, she added:

"This time, if you promise to return, make sure you know how."

When I opened my attention to the space around me, Liara was still standing beside me.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Hard."

She nodded.

"But we spoke."

"That is a beginning."

I looked at the passage.

"I want to find a way to open it gradually. Not to prove that the ancient decision was wrong, and not to repair what I feel toward it."

"Then for what?"

"For those who are there now."

Liara smiled.

Not a smile of victory.

A small smile of understanding.

We returned to the library.

Adara was waiting by the table.

When I entered, she raised her head.

"Did you speak with her?"

"Yes."

"And what did she say?"

"That she wants to choose for herself."

Adara nodded slowly.

"And what do you want to do?"

I sat down facing her.

"I want you to show me the record of the consciousness who succeeded in coming out."

Adara looked at me.

"Why?"

"Because if she succeeded once, perhaps it is possible to learn what was different about her."

She was silent.

Then she rose.

"Come."

We walked together to the hall.

This time I did not feel I was walking toward another secret.

I felt I was beginning a work.

A work that might continue for a long time.

Perhaps years.

Perhaps more.

But for the first time since I left my body, I was not frightened by the possibility that I would not find an answer at once.

Before we entered the hall, I stopped.

Adara turned around.

"What happened?"

I looked at her.

"I want to ask you something."

"Ask."

"If you could return to the moment when you decided to stay and carry the memories of the others, would you choose the same thing again?"

Adara thought for a long time.

"I do not know," she said at last.

I was surprised.

"I thought you would say yes."

She smiled sadly.

"I too thought so for a long time."

"And what changed?"

She looked toward the distant window.

"I met you."

I was silent.

"For ages I thought the only way to protect the others was to stay in the place where I had left myself. Now I am beginning to think that perhaps I too am permitted to look for another way."

I looked at her.

"You are permitted."

She nodded.

Then she opened the door.

Inside the hall waited the record of the only consciousness that had succeeded in coming out of the disconnected space without losing herself.

Adara activated it.

I saw a small light move through a narrow gate.

It stopped for a moment on the threshold.

Then it continued.

It clung to no one.

It did not scatter.

It did not lose its form.

Beyond the gate another consciousness waited for it.

She did not touch it.

She only stood at a distance.

The small light came closer to her.

Then it stopped.

For a moment I thought it was afraid.

But then I heard a faint voice from within the record.

"I am here."

The consciousness waiting for it answered:

"I see you."

They remained facing each other.

They did not unite.

They did not try to share memories.

They only stood.

Then the small light moved forward.

It came out.

I felt excitement.

"Who was the consciousness that waited for it?" I asked.

Adara examined the record.

"There is no name."

"But she did something different."

"Yes."

"She did not try to pull it."

Adara gazed at the sight.

"True."

"And she did not try to enter it in order to help."

"True."

I looked at the small light.

For the first time I understood that perhaps some of the consciousnesses who tried to save the others harmed them precisely because they came too close.

Perhaps sometimes the way to help someone come out is not to hold him.

But to stand close enough that he knows he is not alone, and far enough that he can take the step himself.

Adara looked at me.

"Do you think that is what enabled it to come out?"

"I do not know. But it is the first thing I would examine."

She nodded.

We began examining the record from the beginning.

We no longer looked for who the consciousness that came out was.

We looked for how the distance between them was kept.

And for the first time I felt that the past is not only a place where lost things are kept.

It can also be a place from which one begins to learn.

Not in order to repeat what was.

But in order not to repeat the same mistakes.

I stood before the ancient gate, and gazed at the small light that had crossed it.

I thought of the door I had once closed.

Of the voices I had heard beyond it.

And of the promise I had given without knowing how I would keep it.

This time I did not promise to open all the doors.

I did not promise to save everyone.

I promised myself something more modest.

That the next time someone asks me to open, I will not decide before I listen to him.

And that if I have to tell him there is danger, I will tell him the truth.

Even if that truth forces me to admit that I still do not know what is right to do.

Because perhaps the greatest responsibility is not to be the one who holds the key.

But to remember that the one standing beyond the door, too, has the right to decide what he will do when it opens.

End of Chapter Twenty

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