The Journey to Eternity · A serialized book by Nurit Rozenblat
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Chapter Twenty-Six — The First Step Toward Freedom
This time we did not wait beside the door.
We stood at a distance from it, in the observation room Adara had built, and watched the three circles hovering in the air.
The first was connected to the disconnected space. The second led to the in-between place, and the third to the open world.
Between the circles stretched two narrow corridors of light.
There was nothing especially impressive about them. They did not resemble the enormous gates I had seen on my journeys, and they did not sound the deep tones of the ancient structures. And yet, I could not take my eyes off them.
Perhaps because I knew how many lives depended on what was done here.
Adara stood by the control panel. Sahar checked the stability of the passages one last time. Liara was responsible for guarding the boundaries, and Eliya stood by the outer observation point.
Nera waited beyond the third circle.
The young consciousness had not yet arrived.
"Do you think she will come?" I asked Liara.
"She said she would."
"But perhaps she changed her mind."
"Then she won't come."
I looked at her.
She smiled slightly.
"You still find it hard to wait for other people's decisions."
"Apparently."
"That is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes our impatience comes from caring. The problem begins when we think that caring gives us the right to decide."
I did not answer.
I already knew that difference, at least in thought.
It was harder to put it into practice.
After a while, a point of light appeared in the first circle.
"I am here," the young voice was heard.
I came closer.
"I am glad to hear you."
"I thought a lot about what happened last time."
"And how do you feel now?"
"I am still afraid."
"Do you want us to postpone the attempt?"
"No. I want to try the in-between place."
I looked at Adara.
She nodded.
"We are ready."
"But I have a request," the young one continued.
"I am listening."
"I want the one who stays behind to be able to hear me."
"If she agrees."
"She agrees. We talked about it."
Adara opened another channel.
The faint voice we had heard in the previous attempt appeared at once.
"I am here," said the second consciousness.
"Are you ready?" the young one asked.
"I don't know."
"Neither do I."
For a moment I heard something in the young one's voice that I had not heard before.
Affection.
Not only fear of loss.
Real affection for the one beside her.
"If I get scared, I will come back," said the young one.
"And if you don't get scared?"
Silence fell.
"Then maybe I will stay there a while."
The second voice grew fainter.
"And you will still talk to me?"
"If you want."
"I will want to."
Adara signaled to Sahar to begin.
The first corridor widened slightly.
Inside it, tiny signs appeared, moving in opposite directions.
The young one drew closer.
"Do you see the light?" Liara asked.
"Yes."
"Do you feel it pulling you?"
"No."
"Good. Move forward only if you want to."
The point moved.
Slowly.
She entered the corridor.
This time no other voices were heard calling her to stop.
The connection with the consciousness who had stayed behind was kept on a separate channel.
Sahar looked at the readings.
"The boundaries are stable."
Adara nodded.
"We can continue."
The young one advanced a little more.
And then she stopped.
"There is something strange here."
I moved closer to the circle.
"What do you feel?"
"I don't know how to explain."
She fell silent.
"As if there is more room around me."
"Is it frightening?"
"A little. But also pleasant."
Nera spoke from the outer side.
"You don't have to fill all of this space. You can simply be in it."
The young one was silent.
And then she advanced again.
When she reached the second circle, something happened that we had not expected.
The point of light expanded.
At first, a little.
Then more.
Around the consciousness a delicate form appeared, almost human.
Not an actual body.
Only outlines.
Two arms.
A head.
Shoulders.
I felt excitement.
"Do you see that?" I asked Adara.
"Yes."
"What is happening to her?"
"She is creating a form for herself."
"Is it dangerous?"
Adara examined the readings.
"Not necessarily. But we did not expect it to happen now."
The young one sounded surprised.
"I see hands."
I looked at the circle.
She raised her new arms and gazed at them.
"Are these my hands?"
Liara answered carefully:
"It is a form you are creating out of your own consciousness."
"But I remember them."
I felt tension.
"What do you remember?"
"I had a ring."
She raised one hand.
On one of her fingers a thin line of light appeared.
"It was blue."
Silence fell.
"Who gave it to you?" I asked.
The young one did not answer.
She gazed at her hand.
"I don't know."
And then, almost in a whisper, she said:
"I think I remember my name."
We all froze.
Not because the memory itself was dangerous, but because we knew how important it was to her.
"Do you want to say it?" I asked.
She was silent.
"Maybe."
We waited.
"Ila," she said at last.
The name sounded clear.
She repeated it.
"Ila."
And then again.
"Ila."
I felt great joy.
"That is a beautiful name."
She laughed.
A short, surprised laugh, as if she did not recognize the sound that came out of her.
"I think that really is my name."
But at that moment one of the signs on the control panel changed.
Adara moved quickly toward it.
"Wait."
Sahar raised his head.
"What happened?"
"There is movement in her memories."
I looked at Ila.
She was still gazing at her hands.
"What movement?" I asked.
Adara did not answer at once.
"Some of the memories that were connected to her are beginning to separate."
"Isn't that what we wanted?" Sahar asked.
"Not like this."
She pointed at the reading.
"The system does not know how to distinguish between a memory absorbed from another consciousness and a memory Ila has already made part of her life."
I felt the meaning of the words.
"Meaning, she could lose memories that are important to her."
"Yes."
"Ila," I called.
She raised her head.
"What?"
"We are seeing a change in your memories."
"What change?"
"We don't know exactly yet."
She looked around.
"I feel something."
"What?"
"There is a voice I no longer hear."
The voice from the disconnected space was heard at once.
"I am here."
Ila turned around.
"Not you. Another voice."
She closed her eyes.
"There was a woman who sang. I remember hearing her for a long time."
She fell silent.
"I can't remember the song."
I felt pain.
"Do you want to go back?" I asked.
Ila looked at the circle she had come from.
"No."
"Do you want us to stop the process?"
"Yes. But I want to stay here."
Adara looked at Sahar.
He activated the stopping mechanism.
The first corridor remained open, but the movement inside it stopped.
For a moment it seemed everything had stabilized.
And then Ila screamed.
It was not a loud voice in the human sense.
There was no power of lungs or vocal cords in it.
But I felt it in every part of my consciousness.
"I don't remember her!"
I looked at her.
"Who?"
"I don't know!"
She raised her hands to her face.
"There was someone. I know there was someone."
The voice from the disconnected space was heard again.
"Ila?"
She did not answer.
"Ila, I am here."
The young one turned toward the first circle.
"Who are you?"
Silence fell.
I felt as if something had broken in the room.
"What?" the faint voice was heard.
Ila moved closer to the circle.
"I hear you, but I don't know who you are."
"We spoke a moment ago."
"I know that you say that."
"You promised you wouldn't leave me."
Ila looked confused.
"I don't remember."
Adara hurried to the panel.
"We must return the memories before the separation continues."
"Can we?" I asked.
"Maybe."
Sahar came closer.
"If we reconnect her to the inner space, some of the old connections may return."
"And what will happen to her boundaries?" Liara asked.
Adara was silent.
"They may weaken."
I looked at Ila.
She stood in the middle of the second circle, confused and frightened.
"Ila," I said, "we think we can try to return some of the memories through your previous connection. But it could affect the boundaries you managed to create."
She looked at me.
"What does that mean?"
"That it may be harder for you to distinguish between your own thoughts and the thoughts of others."
"And if you don't do it?"
Adara answered:
"The memories that have already separated may not return."
Ila was silent.
She gazed at her hands.
At the blue ring.
"But I remember my name."
"Yes," I said.
"And if I go back, maybe I will forget it again."
I did not answer.
"And if I stay, maybe I will forget the one I loved."
She looked at me.
"How am I supposed to choose?"
I did not know.
The voice from the disconnected space was heard.
"Ila, I want to talk to you."
The young one turned around.
"Who are you?"
A long silence fell.
And then the second consciousness answered:
"I don't know if you remember me. But I remember you."
Ila came a little closer.
"What do you remember?"
"I remember that you used to talk about wind."
Ila was silent.
"I remember you used to say that if you got out, you would try to find a place where there is sky."
The young one lowered her head.
"I remember the wind."
"I know."
"But I don't remember you."
The second voice trembled.
"I know."
I felt the pain of both of them.
And then Ila asked:
"Do you want me to come back?"
Silence fell.
"I want you to remember me," the second consciousness answered.
"But do you want me to come back?"
The voice was silent for a long time.
"I don't know."
I stood there and felt helpless.
All the knowledge we had gathered was not enough to answer the question.
We could explain the risks.
We could offer possibilities.
But we could not know which choice would be right for her.
And then a thought rose in me that frightened me.
Perhaps we treat memory as if it were the only thing that holds our identity.
But does a person who has lost memory stop being the person they were?
Does a love that has been forgotten cease to exist?
And if someone remembers us and we no longer remember them, what remains of the connection?
I thought of people in the human world who had lost memories because of illness or injury.
Of family members who went on loving them even when they no longer recognized their faces.
I did not want to use their suffering to find an easy answer.
I knew the loss was real.
But I also knew that a person does not lose their worth because their memories have changed.
"Ila," I said, "I want to ask you something."
She looked at me.
"What?"
"What do you want now? Not what you wanted before you entered the passage. What do you want at this moment?"
She thought.
"I want her not to hurt."
"And what do you want for yourself?"
She was silent.
"I want to stay here a little longer."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
She raised her head.
"But I want time to understand."
I looked at Adara.
"Can we leave her in the in-between space without continuing the separation?"
Adara checked the panel.
"For a limited time, if we stabilize her boundaries and stop the process that sorts the memories."
"And afterward?"
"We will have to decide whether she goes back or continues."
"How much time do we have?"
Adara looked at the readings.
"I don't know yet."
Liara moved closer to Ila.
"I can help you stabilize your boundaries," she said.
"Will it take more memories from me?"
"Not intentionally. But I cannot promise there will be no further changes."
Ila thought.
"Will you enter me?"
"No. I will stay outside your boundary. You will decide whether to accept my guidance."
Ila nodded.
Liara began speaking to her quietly.
She asked her to distinguish between her voice and the other voices.
Between her own desire and the requests heard around her.
Between what she feels now and what she remembers feeling in the past.
Ila listened.
Slowly, the light around her became more stable.
The blue ring still appeared on her finger.
Her name remained.
But the voice from the disconnected space was no longer familiar to her.
Sahar came up to me.
"We need to make another decision."
I looked at him.
"Which?"
"The connection between Ila and the second consciousness is beginning to affect the stability of the passage."
"Why?"
"Because the second consciousness is trying to reach her memories. Not by force. She simply repeats the same things again and again, hoping Ila will remember."
I looked at the first circle.
The faint voice went on speaking.
It told of old conversations.
Of shared moments.
Of promises.
"We cannot blame her," I said.
"I am not blaming," Sahar replied. "But if the connection continues like this, it could cause them to cling to each other."
"Can we ask her to stop?"
"Yes."
I moved closer to the circle.
"I want to talk to you," I said.
The voice grew fainter.
"What happened?"
"We need you to stop trying to awaken Ila's memories for a while."
"Why?"
"Because it could harm the boundaries of both of you."
Silence fell.
"But if I stop talking, she will forget me completely."
I felt the fear.
"I don't know if that is true."
"And if it is?"
I did not answer at once.
"Then it will be very painful," I said.
The voice trembled.
"I don't want to lose her."
"I know."
"You don't know."
She said it in anger.
And I did not try to defend myself.
"You are right," I answered. "I don't know exactly what you feel."
She fell silent.
And then she asked:
"Can you bring her back to me?"
I looked at Adara.
She stood behind me.
"Possibly," I said. "But it would involve risk for her. And she asked for time to think."
"And if she doesn't choose to come back?"
I felt the words.
"Then we will have to respect her choice."
The voice broke.
"Even if she doesn't remember me?"
That was the hardest question.
If Ila does not remember the connection, is her choice to distance herself from it free?
And if we return her memories to her by force so that she can choose, would we not be taking her freedom away at that very moment?
I did not know.
"We will not decide now," I said. "We will check whether we can return information about the connection to her without forcing the memories themselves on her."
The voice was silent.
"How?"
"Perhaps through a story. Words. Your testimony. Without putting the memories inside her."
"But that is not the same thing."
"True."
"She will not feel what she felt."
"Perhaps not."
The voice grew fainter.
"Then what will remain of me with her?"
I thought for a moment.
"Perhaps the possibility of getting to know you anew, if both of you want that."
The connection stayed open, but the second consciousness agreed to stop speaking for a while.
Ila stood in the in-between space.
She looked calmer.
Not happy.
Not sure.
But stable.
Adara managed to stop the memory-separation process.
The first corridor remained open, and the third had not yet been activated.
We were in a situation we did not know.
One consciousness stood between two worlds.
Not entirely imprisoned.
Not entirely free.
Not the same consciousness she had been before, but not someone else entirely, either.
Eliya came up to me.
"Do you know what troubles me?" she asked.
"What?"
"We are trying to preserve her identity, but we still don't know what exactly makes her who she is."
I looked at Ila.
"Her memories are part of her."
"Yes. But not all of them."
"Her desires, too."
"And her connections."
I thought about that.
"And perhaps also the way she changes."
Eliya nodded.
"Exactly."
She looked at me.
"You are not the same woman you were before you ate the fruit."
"I know."
"But you still feel that you are you."
"Yes."
"So perhaps identity is not a fixed thing that we must preserve unchanged."
I looked at her.
"But there is a difference between changing and losing parts of yourself without choosing it."
"True," she replied. "And that is exactly the difference we need to learn to respect."
Time passed.
I did not know how much.
Ila remained in the in-between space.
She learned to move within it.
To create a form for herself.
To change it.
To move away from the first circle and return to it.
Sometimes she asked to hear Nera.
Sometimes she wanted quiet.
Once she asked to see the outer space without crossing into it.
Sahar opened a small window before her.
Beyond it, distant lights were seen.
Ila gazed at them for a long time.
"Is that the world?" she asked.
Nera answered:
"That is a small part of it."
"Is there more?"
"A great deal more."
Ila smiled.
"I want to see."
But she did not ask to cross.
Not yet.
At some point Adara called me.
She stood before a reading I had not seen before.
"I found something in the memories that were separated from Ila," she said.
I looked at her.
"What?"
"They did not disappear."
I felt excitement.
"Where are they?"
"They remained in the layer between the inner space and the in-between space."
"Can they be returned?"
"Maybe. But there is a problem."
She enlarged the reading.
I saw a cluster of small lights.
Some of them connected to each other.
Others moved separately.
"Are these Ila's memories?" I asked.
"Some of them. But there are also memories of the second consciousness here."
I looked at her.
"How do you know?"
"Because they keep responding to her connection, even when Ila does not recognize it."
I felt tension.
"So they shared memories for a long time."
"Yes."
Adara fell silent.
"But there is something else."
I looked at her.
"What?"
"Some of these memories do not belong to either of them separately."
I did not understand.
"How is that possible?"
"They were created out of the connection between them."
She pointed at a small cluster of lights.
"Not a memory of one that was transferred to the other. Rather a shared experience, which the two shaped together over a long time."
I thought about that.
In my human life I had memories I could not separate from the people who were with me.
Conversations.
Trips.
Family moments.
Each of us remembered them differently.
But something of their meaning existed between us.
"And if we try to separate them?" I asked.
Adara looked at me.
"We may harm both of them."
I stood before the reading for a long time.
I understood now that the problem was more complex than we had thought.
We wanted to return to each consciousness what belonged to her.
But not everything created inside a connection belongs to one person alone.
There are experiences that do not exist in the same form outside the connection in which they were created.
I thought of Eliya.
Of our shared memories from the time before my birth.
Of the fact that I do not remember a large part of them, and she does.
Are they still part of me?
Does the fact that she remembers them give her the right to return them to me?
No.
But does the fact that I do not remember cancel what there was between us?
That, too, no.
"We cannot simply return the memories," I said.
Adara nodded.
"Not without understanding what will happen."
"So what will we do?"
She looked at me.
"We will have to ask both of them."
"But Ila does not remember the connection."
"We can show her the information without putting it inside her."
"Like a story?"
"Yes."
I thought about that.
"And the second consciousness can tell her side."
"If she wants to."
I nodded.
I went back to Ila.
She stood by the small window Sahar had opened.
"Do you want to talk?" I asked.
She turned around.
"Yes."
I told her what we had found.
About the memories that had remained between the spaces.
About the long connection with the second consciousness.
About how some of the experiences had been created by the two of them together.
Ila listened.
"So I really did know her."
"Yes."
"And I loved her?"
I thought for a moment.
"From what we have heard, there was a deep connection between you. But I cannot tell you exactly what you felt."
She looked at the window.
"I don't feel that now."
"I know."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"You don't have to do anything right away."
She was silent.
"I want to hear her."
We opened the connection.
The faint voice was heard.
"Ila?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember me?"
Ila lowered her head.
"No. But I was told we were close."
Silence fell.
"We were," the second consciousness answered.
"What is your name?" Ila asked.
The voice was silent.
And then she said:
"I don't remember the name I once had."
"So what do you want me to call you?"
A long time passed.
"You can call me Tama."
Ila repeated the name.
"Tama."
"Yes."
"Do you want to tell me about us?"
The voice trembled.
"Yes."
Tama began to tell.
Not about great promises.
Not about the suffering.
About small things.
About the first time they heard each other inside the darkness.
About a conversation that lasted a long time, even though neither of them knew what to say.
About how Ila would describe places she remembered, and Tama would try to imagine them.
About their fears.
About the moments when one asked for quiet and the other respected it.
Ila listened.
Sometimes she asked.
Sometimes she was silent.
She did not remember.
Not all at once.
Not in a miraculous way.
But I saw that she was beginning to know Tama as a person standing before her now.
Not only as a lost memory.
When they finished talking, Ila turned to me.
"I want to stay here a little longer."
"All right."
"And I want to talk with Tama again."
"If she wants to as well."
"I do," Tama's voice was heard.
Ila smiled.
"Then we will talk tomorrow."
The word tomorrow sounded strange in a place where time did not pass as I had known it.
But I understood what she meant.
Not now.
Not at once.
Later.
When she was ready.
I left the observation room.
Eliya was waiting for me in the corridor.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
I thought for a moment.
"As if something succeeded and something failed."
She nodded.
"That is an accurate description."
"I don't know if Ila will go out."
"Neither do I."
"And I don't know if her memories will return."
"True."
I looked at her.
"But she has begun to know Tama anew."
Eliya smiled.
"Yes."
We stood in silence.
And then I asked:
"If one day I remember everything that was between us before I was born, do you think it will change what we are now?"
Eliya looked at me for a long time.
"Perhaps."
"For the better?"
"I don't know."
She came a little closer.
"But I hope we will not have to wait for those memories to go on knowing each other."
I smiled.
"So do I."
We walked together to the garden.
The lights above the city moved slowly.
I thought of Ila.
Of the name she had remembered.
Of the blue ring.
Of the memories she had lost.
Of Tama, who remained beyond the door and went on loving someone who no longer remembered her.
I thought of myself, too.
Of everything I had been before I ate the fruit.
Of everything I had become since.
I was not the same woman.
But I was not a stranger to myself, either.
There were memories in me that remained clear.
Others had changed.
There were connections that had grown distant.
And new connections that had been created.
Perhaps identity is not a fixed collection of memories that must not be lost.
Perhaps it is also the way we go on choosing, responding, loving and changing.
But I did not want to turn that thought into an excuse for loss.
Ila's memories were important.
Her connection with Tama was important.
And her choice to stay in the in-between space was important, too.
There was no need to cancel one of them to recognize the value of the others.
Before we parted, Eliya stopped.
"Do you know what I learned today?" she asked.
"What?"
"That we cannot always give a person back what they lost."
I looked at her.
"I know."
"But sometimes we can help them create something new, without pretending it replaces the old."
I thought of Tama.
Of Ila.
Of their first conversation after the loss of memory.
"Yes," I said.
I remained alone in the garden.
I gazed at the trees.
I did not know if Ila would choose to go out.
I did not know if Tama would be able to join her.
I did not know if we would succeed in returning the shared memories without harming them.
But I knew that today something had happened that had not happened for a very long time.
One consciousness had come out of the disconnected space and reached a place where she could stop, think, and choose her next step.
She was not entirely free.
But she was no longer imprisoned in the same way.
She stood between two worlds.
And for the first time, no one forced her to continue or to go back.
I thought of the moment she remembered her name.
Of the brief joy.
And of the pain that came after it.
Perhaps every significant change in life carries something of this complexity.
We move forward, but sometimes we lose along the way things we did not know were so important to us.
We discover new possibilities, but are forced to part from other possibilities.
And sometimes we stand in a place that is neither the past nor the future, and do not yet know who we will be.
I looked at the distant lights.
This time I did not want to hurry to the next chapter of my life.
I wanted to understand the moment I was in.
Because perhaps life is not measured only by the distance we have traveled.
Perhaps there is meaning also in the moments when we stop in the middle of the road, look around, and decide how we want to continue.
And perhaps the first step toward freedom is not the moment we leave the place that held us, but the moment we discover that even within change, we still have the possibility to choose who we will be.
End of Chapter Twenty-Six
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