He was already on the bench when I sat down.
One of those stone things that tries to be a throne and a punishment at the same time.
Cracked down the middle. Lichen in the corners. A plaque no one read.
The man was old.
Not the kind that goes gray gently—
The kind that forgets how to stand without telling a story first.
He wore five scarves and no socks. His shoes had been polished by time, not cloth.
"You don't smell like you're from here," he said, not looking at me.
"I try not to stay anywhere long enough to pick up the scent," I replied.
He nodded slowly, as if that made all the difference.
We watched the square move.
Children bounced.
Vendors yelled in three languages.
Someone's hat was on fire, but it was the kind that flickered artfully, so no one panicked.
After a while, he muttered, "Too clean."
I raised an eyebrow. "The hat?"
"The town," he said. "Used to be dirt here. Real dirt. With worms and spite in it. Now it's all… tiles. Magic tiles. Tiles that correct your stride if you're off by a hair."
"I tripped on one earlier," I said. "Felt very judged."
He barked a laugh. "Progress."
Then silence.
The kind of silence that lingers just long enough to tempt a memory out.
"I remember when people needed each other," he said eventually. "When you learned to make bread because someone had to eat. Now bread makes itself."
He shook his head. "Fewer fights, more festivals. But nobody looks anyone in the eye anymore."
I glanced around.
He wasn't wrong.
"Know where this is headed," he muttered. "Saw it once. Town a few valleys over. Liora. Shiny place. Clever people. Magic, machines, self-pouring tea."
He looked at me sideways, suddenly sharp.
"You ever been there?"
I nodded, slowly.
"Once," I said. "Long enough to know I shouldn't stay."
He looked relieved.
"Tell me," he said.
And so I did.
There's a peculiar kind of madness that only visits when people have _too much time_.
Not the busy kind—where madness hides in letters and war plans and stews on low heat.
I mean the idle kind.
The kind born from comfort, fermented in ease, and distilled through sheer boredom.
The town was called Liora, which meant "Light" in a language I no longer trust.
Everything there shined.
Even the shadows were decorative.
They'd done it—solved the hard parts.
Endless hot water from a rune-turbine.
Bread that rose itself.
Clothes that cleaned mid-dance.
I watched a chair walk across the room to avoid being sat on by someone sweaty.
It was all very impressive.
And just a bit tragic.
The square was filled with laughter.
Not the belly-deep kind you earn after a long day's labor.
This was the delicate tinkle of people who hadn't suffered a splinter in years.
They wore robes made from whisper-silk.
Spoke in circles.
And debated if roses were too sharp to be displayed in public gardens.
One man proudly showed me his automaton dog.
"It barks in seven languages," he said.
It also blinked. Once. Loudly.
I asked what it was for.
He blinked too. "For?"
Later, a child offered me a "Feel-Stone"—a charm that delivered curated emotions.
You pressed it to your chest, chose from a menu, and felt love, grief, nostalgia, or awe, all without the mess.
He grinned. "You can even skip the bad parts!"
I asked what he did when he was sad.
He looked confused.
"I don't think we do that anymore," he said.
I found the gardens eventually.
Hedges clipped by enchanted scissors.
Birdsong played from glass spheres.
Every flower perfect.
But when I knelt to speak to one—an old habit, don't ask why—I heard nothing.
No hum. No breath. No memory of seed or storm.
Just silence.
Turns out when you grow things too fast, too well, they stop listening.
Or maybe we do.
That night, I sat outside the city gates.
Justice snored beside me, belly full of stolen sugar turnips.
The stars felt clearer out there.
The kind of night that sings to you, if you know how to be still.
And that's the thing.
In Liora, no one was still.
Every need answered. Every itch scratched.
No space for longing.
No gaps between moments.
They didn't sleep under the stars.
They replicated them in domes.
Convenience is lovely.
Until it becomes a cage with velvet walls.
I once knew a mage who could slow time.
He said the gift ruined him.
When everything moves slower, you see people rushing toward pointless things.
He built a garden.
Grew one flower.
Watched it bloom for eighty years.
He cried when it opened.
He died the next day.
But he said it was worth it.
Liora will thrive, for a time.
Progress often does.
But without roots, even the brightest tree topples in the first honest storm.
And the people?
Well, I hope they eventually learn to sit still.
To watch the wind move through tall grass.
To hear flowers speak—not through spells or speakers, but through scent, and struggle, and survival.
Because for all their magic and machines, they've forgotten the oldest magic of all.
I stayed just long enough to trade a cracked spoon for a harmonica that played itself.
Justice ate that too.
I'm not mad about it.
The music was beautiful.
But too perfect.
Sometimes, a note out of key is the only thing that proves a song's alive.
I stopped talking then.
Not because I ran out of words—gods know I never do.
But because the square had grown quieter.
The kind of quiet that invites thinking, or at least a well-timed yawn.
The old man leaned back with a groan that belonged half to his bones and half to the bench.
He squinted up at the clouds like they owed him an explanation.
"Hmph," he said finally. "Knew it. Too clever by half, those people. Built themselves a future so smooth they slipped right off it."
"They'll try again," I said, brushing a speck of something off my sleeve that might've been sugar or centuries. "They always do."
He gave a slow nod, as though I'd confirmed a bet he'd made with the wind.
"Break the wheel, reinvent it as a hexagon," he muttered. "Bet it shines real nice till the first rain."
I noticed, then, we weren't alone anymore.
Three children had gathered on the nearby steps. Cross-legged, elbows on knees, the international posture of eavesdropping with intent.
One held a stick—half sword, half conductor's baton.
Another nursed a plum like it was the last one on the planet.
The third had been mimicking my expressions for the last few minutes and was now stuck in an impressively tragic squint.
The old man tilted his head their way. "Well? What'd you catch?"
The sword-holder frowned, thinking hard. "When people stop needing each other, they forget how to grow anything that listens."
The plum-guardian added, mouth full, "Too much easy makes your heart go soft."
The mimic didn't speak—just pointed at a tile underfoot and scowled like it had corrected their stride one too many times.
The old man grinned, showing more gaps than teeth. "Not bad. Could've said it with fewer metaphors, but where's the fun in that?"
I stood, joints reminding me of old promises I hadn't kept to my knees.
Dust clung to my cloak like it always does. We've got history.
"Well," I said, stretching just enough to feel mortal, "there's a market two towns over that claims to sell 'regret-proof memories.' Might be worth a look."
"Or a laugh," said the old man. "Bring me back something useless."
"I always do."
The children trailed me for a bit, tossing questions like pebbles:
"Do the flowers really stop talking?"
"What's a tea fountain?"
"Is your mule cursed, or just like that?"
"Justice?" I said, spotting him asleep by the baker's stall, one ear twitching at lies. "He's seen worse than curses. Watched me attempt poetry once."
That got a laugh. Even from Justice, I think—though it might've just been indigestion.
I reached the edge of the square, where the breeze began to smell faintly of bread, moss, and maybe a little mischief.
Behind me, the old man cupped his hands and called out one last thing:
"Tell the wind I said hello!"
I didn't answer.
But when I crossed the boundary where magic gave way to meadow,
I stopped.
Listened.
And quietly, so only the wind and the worms might hear, I said—
"She remembers."