The fire crackled between us, its light flickering against the endless night. I sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at the shadows it cast. My companionâ€"a figure cloaked in robes that seemed woven from the stars themselvesâ€"leaned against a crooked staff, watching me with ancient, knowing eyes. I spoke first, my voice trembling against the vast silence around us. “And I said to him: Are there answers to all of this?” The figure tilted their head, as if considering. Then, in a voice that seemed to come from the earth itself, they replied: “The answer is in a story, and the story is being told.” I flinched. The words offered no comfort, only more questions. The fire popped and spat sparks into the dark. My heart, heavy with doubt, pressed on. “And I said: But there is so much pain.” Another figure appearedâ€"this one cloaked in smoke, their form barely distinct from the darkness around them. They did not sit; they simply hovered, their presence a quiet weight. “And she answered, plainly: Pain will happen.” I wanted to argue, to demand why pain must be part of the story, but something in her tone silenced me. I stared at the fire, letting its heat warm my palms, and then asked the question that gnawed at me the most. “Then I said: Will I ever find meaning?” They both spoke nowâ€"the one of stars, the one of smokeâ€"each voice weaving into the other like the strands of a melody: “You will find meaning where you give meaning. The answer is in a story, and the story isn’t finished.” The fire flared, bright and blinding, and for a moment, I saw something in its heart: a tapestry of momentsâ€"laughter and tears, triumphs and failuresâ€"stretching infinitely. Each thread was unfinished, each knot a decision yet to be made. When the fire dimmed again, I was alone. The figures had vanished, but their words lingered, echoing in the quiet spaces of my mind. I stood, brushing the dirt from my hands, and began to walk. The story wasn’t finished, and I had a part to tell.