The old man's voice dropped low, flickering like a campfire in a forest no map remembered.
"There was a man named Axtya."
Jason arched a brow. "That Persian?"
The old man gave a half-smile. "From somewhere older than names. A sorcerer, some said. A master of riddles. Axtya believed knowledge was a fortress—and emotion, a flaw. He built walls of logic so high, not even his shadow could follow him."
Jason smirked faintly. "Sounds familiar."
The man went on.
"He wandered the world, issuing challenges. Those who failed vanished. Those who solved his riddles… none ever did. Until Yōišta."
"That the hero?"
"Not quite. Yōišta was no saint. Sharp-tongued. Wounded. Wore bitterness like armor. But unlike Axtya, he didn't hide behind puzzles. He sought answers—and meaning. He prayed—not for power, but for clarity."
Jason tilted his head, sarcasm giving way to curiosity. "What were the riddles?"
The old man's eyes glinted.
"The first," he said,
"'What walks without legs, speaks without voice, and dies the moment you try to hold it?'"
Jason muttered, "Wind."
"Correct. Yōišta answered the same. Axtya's eyes narrowed. Then came the second:
'I grow when shared, die when hoarded, and feed the fire that burns between men. What am I?'"
"Trust," Jason said softly.
"Or knowledge," the old man nodded. "Yōišta offered both. Axtya's jaw clenched."
"And the third: 'I am the echo of every man's shadow, and yet I weigh nothing. I can break armies or pass like smoke. What am I?'"
Jason thought. "Guilt?"
"Or memory. Or regret. Yōišta said any would suffice. And then, he asked his own."
The old man paused. The hum of the engines stretched between them like breath held too long.
"He looked Axtya in the eye and asked:
'Who do you become when no one is watching,
and no one is waiting for you to return?'"
Jason's smirk faltered.
"He couldn't answer, could he?" Jason asked, though he already knew.
"No," the old man said. "Because Axtya had spent a lifetime being unseeable. He had answers, but no self. No truth to return to. He disappeared—not with thunder, but with silence. A man who outlived connection… and so, was already dead."
Jason exhaled, slow and long.
"The hero wins," he murmured.
"Not because he was right," the old man said,
"But because he was real."
Jason let the words linger. He shifted in his seat, elbow brushing the armrest, shoulder tilting toward the window. His body, wound too tight for too long, began to unwind.
He didn't speak again.
The hum of the plane swallowed the silence between them. Jason's chest rose once. Then again. Slower.
The old man turned his head slightly, not enough to break the stillness.
"are you sleeping easy, wanderer?," he said gently. "maybe even riddles deserve their rest."
Jason didn't respond. His jaw slackened. The window beside him showed only ink-black sky.
The old man closed his eyes, his smile fading into peace.
The story had been told.
And the listener, at last, had found his quiet