The Promise of Emptiness

The mist, once a shroud, now began to fray at the edges, revealing the pale, undulating shoulders of hills that had been invisible moments before. Sunlight, hesitant at first, then boldly, pierced the lingering vapour, painting the dew-kissed grasses with a fleeting, pearlescent glow. The narrow path, which had seemed to wind through an unfinished world, now emerged into a landscape of gentle, unfolding beauty. Beneath their feet, the wooden planks of the bridge, worn smooth by the passage of unseen travellers, creaked softly under the weight of their contemplation. The stream, a ribbon of liquid silver, no longer slid but flowed with a more determined murmur, carrying whispers of the world beyond the fog.

Confucius paused, his hand resting on the weathered railing. His gaze, serene and steady, followed the water’s course. “Tell me, Bleddyn,” he began, his voice a low resonance that seemed to blend with the stream’s song, “what lies at the centre of a wheel?”

Bleddyn, his mind still tracing the intricate geometry of their conversation, answered without hesitation. “The hub.”