Once upon a time…

You walk east where old churches wear blank faces. In the market a hush hangs, for today is the Day of Unspoken Icons. People tie linen over mirrors and burn olive pits so voices will not cling to surfaces. You came to map a lost road, but your guide, a monk, has vowed silence. He carries a slate, yet the chalk snaps each time he tries to write your name.

You travel along the white cliffs where wind peels paint from rock. There the sea answers questions with a single boom, no matter what you ask. You point to a ruined chapel. The monk nods and taps his forehead twice: danger. Inside, the walls show only scraped halos. A door waits behind the altar, sealed with wax shaped like ears.

At dusk, you press your palm to the wax. It melts cold as snow. Below, a cistern holds still water that repeats what is not said. You drink, trying to speak to your mother far away. Only your breath returns.

You leave a chalk mark instead: not a name, just your footprint. By morning, the market is loud again. You keep walking.