In the province long forgotten where clouds rarely broke and stars whispered only to the patient, and the rivers spoke softly to those who listened,
a traveler reached a monastery carved from lime stone and time.
The weary traveler bowed low before an old monk, his heart was heavy
and asked softly:

“How do I know if the partner I’ve chosen is the right one?”

The monk stirred a *** of broth,
and motioned toward two chambers in the monastery.

“One room,” he said, “is made of ice.
The other holds only a small flame and an empty chair.”

He gestured for the traveler to step into the first.

Inside the ice room, the air hung heavy.
Nothing moved.
Even the traveler’s breath felt like regret frozen mid-thought.

“There are partners like this,” the monk said.
“Their presence stills everything
not with peace, but with numbness.
They do not speak to be heard,
but to drown.
Their affection is not given, only weighed.
Their world is always winter,
and they ask you to be snow.”

Then he led the traveler to the second chamber.

A small flame danced quietly in the center,
casting shadows that looked like possibilities.

“And then there are partners who carry fire—not to burn, but to warm.
They ask nothing you must bleed to give.
They speak gently,
but your soul listens.”

“With them, silence is not punishment.
Stillness is not withdrawal.
Love is not transaction.”

The traveler sat in the warmth and closed their eyes.

“But how do I choose?” they whispered.

The monk knelt beside the flame.

“Sit with them.
Do not ask them to explain who they are.
Instead, ask yourself who you become beside them.”

“If you shrink,
if your joy hides,
if your spirit folds itself smaller just to fit
you are in the ice.”

“But if you unfold,
if your voice returns,
if your laugh forgets it was ever caged—
you are with the fire.”

The traveler wept quietly,
not from sorrow,
but from remembering warmth.

And so they left with no map,
but a truth burning gently in their chest.