The Journey to Eternity · A Philosophical Novel by Nurit Rozenblat

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Chapter One — The Encounter

That evening I went out of the house for a short walk.

I left a cup of tea I had not finished drinking on the counter, put on my walking shoes, and went out to the orchard near our home.

I had no special plan. I wanted some air, some quiet, and perhaps to sort out a few thoughts that had been going around in my head during the day.

I had a good life. A family I loved, a home, pursuits that filled my days. I was not looking for an escape from them.

And yet, as the years passed, I found myself thinking more about time.

Not only about the time that had passed, but about everything I had not yet managed to understand.

Sometimes, just when it seemed to me that I was beginning to know life, the thought arose in me of how little I knew about it.

The sun had already begun to set. The scent of ripe oranges filled the air, and the light between the trees turned soft and golden.

I knew the paths in the orchard well. Over the years I had walked them hundreds of times, sometimes with the children and sometimes alone.

I passed a tree laden with fruit. One orange, especially large and orange, caught my attention.

I reached out, twisted it gently until it came off the branch, and began peeling it as I walked.

"I would have chosen the one on the right."

I stopped.

I looked to the sides.

I saw no one.

"Sorry?"

"The orange on the right. It is sweeter."

I raised my head.

On a low branch stood a small bird with silver feathers. She looked at me with dark, round eyes, as if she had been waiting for me to notice her.

"Did you say that?"

"Yes."

I looked behind the tree, then among the bushes.

"Is someone here?"

"Besides the two of us?"

"I am trying to understand who is speaking."

"I am."

I looked at her again.

"A talking bird," I murmured.

"I hope that does not bother you."

I burst out laughing.

"Bother me? I am still trying to decide whether I am imagining you."

"And how do you intend to check?"

"Good question."

I separated a segment of the orange and tasted it.

It was astonishingly sour.

I grimaced.

"Well, at least about one thing you are right."

"I told you."

There was something amused in her voice, almost self-satisfied.

I sat down on a wide stone beside the path.

"So what is your name?"

"You can call me Bird."

"That is not exactly a name."

"You have not introduced yourself either."

I smiled.

"True."

"And yet we are getting along."

I looked at her with curiosity.

Her feathers were not gray or white, but truly silver. In the sunset light they looked as if they had been coated with a thin layer of light.

"I have never seen a bird like you."

"You have seen many things you did not know before."

"Not ones that talk to me."

She tilted her head.

"Perhaps you simply did not listen."

The sentence made me laugh, but it also stirred a thought in me.

Over the years I loved watching animals. Sometimes I spoke to them, without expecting an answer. I was always curious to know how they experience the world, what they understand that we do not, and what things happen around us without our noticing.

"Do you come here often?" I asked.

"Now and then."

"Strange that I never saw you before."

"I saw you."

The smile vanished from my face.

"Really?"

"You walk here often. Sometimes fast, sometimes slowly. Today you stopped more than usual."

I gazed at her.

"Are you following me?"

"I notice those who pass by."

"That is a somewhat evasive answer."

"It could be."

Something in her voice changed. It was still pleasant, but it no longer sounded amused.

"There is a place I would like to show you."

"What place?"

She turned her head toward the far part of the orchard.

"Beyond those trees there is a path. At its end stands a very special tree."

I followed her gaze.

Between two rows of orange trees I noticed a narrow path that almost disappeared beneath dry leaves.

"I have known this orchard for years," I said. "I never noticed that path."

"It was there."

"And you want me to come with you to see a tree?"

"Yes."

"What is special about it?"

"Its fruit."

I lifted the sour orange in my hand.

"I hope it is better than this one."

"Its taste is the last thing that should interest you."

I set the orange down beside me.

"Now you have truly made me curious."

The bird did not move.

"Before we go, I want to ask you something."

"You are already asking me quite a few things."

"This is a different question."

She looked at me intently.

"If you could receive more time, what would you do with it?"

I leaned back.

"How much time?"

"As much as you would want."

"I would travel more. Study. Read books. Meet people. There are so many things I have not yet seen."

"And what else?"

I thought for a moment.

"I would want to understand things."

"What things?"

I looked at the sky, which had begun to turn a deep pink.

"For example, why we are here. How it all began. What happens to our consciousness when we die. Whether there is something beyond what we are able to see."

The bird remained quiet.

"I know," I smiled. "Rather big questions for an evening walk."

"Not at all."

"And you? Do you know the answers?"

"To some of the questions."

"And to the others?"

"There are answers that even I am still seeking."

I looked at her in surprise.

"I thought a talking bird knew everything."

"That is an excessive expectation of a bird."

I laughed.

A light wind passed through the trees. A few dry leaves rolled along the path, and from far away came the sound of a passing car.

The world around me went on as usual, as if there were nothing unusual in my sitting on a stone and conversing with a silver bird.

"And what if your time never ran out?" she suddenly asked.

I looked at her.

"You mean eternal life?"

"I mean the possibility of living without knowing that the end is approaching."

I was silent.

Once I thought eternal life was the greatest gift a person could receive. But as I grew older, I began to understand that the question is more complex.

"I do not know," I said at last. "I would not want to live forever if it meant watching everyone I love grow old and disappear."

"And what if you did not have to part from them?"

"How is that possible?"

"Perhaps you should see the tree first."

I looked toward the hidden path.

"You know something I do not know."

"Many things."

"And you do not intend to tell me?"

"Not all of them."

I hesitated.

I needed to return home soon. I had gone out only for a short walk, and I usually did not wander far without letting anyone know.

I took out my phone and checked the time.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the trees.

"How long will it take?" I asked.

The bird looked at me.

"It is hard to answer that question."

"Why?"

"Because time does not behave everywhere the way you know it."

I raised my eyes from the phone.

"What do you mean?"

She spread her wings.

"Come."

"Wait. I am not sure this is a good idea."

The bird remained on the branch.

"You do not have to come."

I looked at the path.

Something about this invitation drew me, but I did not know whether it was curiosity or the strange feeling that this meeting was not by chance.

"And if I come, will I be able to return?"

"Yes."

"Whenever I want?"

She paused.

"You will be able to choose to return."

I noticed she had not exactly answered the question I asked.

"You are very careful with your words."

"Sometimes words create promises that were never meant to be given."

I did not know what to reply.

I looked at the familiar path that led home, and then at the other path, which disappeared among the trees.

In the end I stood up from the stone and brushed the dust off my trousers.

"All right," I said. "I am ready to see your tree. But afterwards I am going home."

The bird spread her wings and flew to the first tree beside the narrow path.

"Of course."

She waited for me there.

I put the phone in my pocket and began walking after her.

I did not know then why she had been willing to wait for me for so long.

Nor did I know that this was not the first time we had met.

The previous time, I did not remember.

And the bird, for a reason I did not understand, did not intend to remind me of it.

© 2026 Nurit Rozenblat. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed without the author's prior written permission.

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