There was a plain where the wind carried names.

Not people's names.

The names they had once given themselves.

Dreamer.

Brother.

Teacher.

Painter.

Home.

Enough.

Whenever the wind crossed the plain...

those forgotten names drifted through the air like tiny pieces of paper.

No one could catch them.

They simply floated by,

waiting to be remembered.

The ground stretched endlessly beneath a sky the color of deep copper.

There was no sun.

Only countless enormous rings suspended in the heavens.

Some made of stone.

Some of crystal.

Some woven from glowing vines.

They slowly rotated around nothing,

casting moving circles of light across the plain.

The wind passed through them.

Each ring answered with a different sound.

One sounded like distant laughter.

Another...

like someone quietly closing a book.

Another...

like the first breath after crying.

There were no trees.

Instead...

great white feathers drifted lazily through the air,

never touching the ground.

Every feather became a tiny bird for a moment,

before returning to being a feather once again.

The world couldn't decide which it preferred.

A traveler walked alone.

His boots were covered with dust the color of old sunsets.

Across his shoulder rested a rolled-up canvas.

Blank.

He had carried it for years.

People often assumed he was a painter.

He never corrected them.

The truth was...

he had forgotten why he first carried it.

Long ago...

he had wanted to paint places no one had ever imagined.

Worlds where loneliness looked beautiful instead of frightening.

Then life became busy.

Work.

Promises.

Responsibilities.

One by one...

he folded away his colors.

Eventually...

he stopped calling himself an artist.

Not because he had failed.

Because he no longer believed he had earned the word.

Far ahead...

someone stood beneath one of the great floating rings.

A woman.

She carried an enormous kite.

Not flying.

Simply resting beside her.

Its cloth shimmered like moonlight,

though there was no moon.

She looked upward,

watching the wind instead of the sky.

The traveler almost continued walking.

Instead...

he stopped a respectful distance away.

The wind did the introductions.

Neither spoke.

The giant rings slowly turned overhead.

One beam of golden light crossed the plain.

Then another.

The woman's kite gently trembled.

Not from wind.

From anticipation.

Finally...

she asked,

"Can you hear them?"

The traveler listened.

The wind whispered softly around them.

He smiled.

"The rings?"

She shook her head.

"The names."

He closed his eyes.

The wind passed once more.

Something brushed against his shoulder.

Almost too quietly to notice.

He thought he heard...

"Builder."

Then...

"Friend."

Then...

"Enough."

The voices disappeared.

"I think so."

he whispered.

She nodded.

"They visit everyone."

They sat upon the warm stone.

The enormous kite rested beside them.

Its long ribbons drifted upward instead of downward.

The traveler finally asked,

"Why isn't it flying?"

She smiled.

"It is."

He frowned.

"It's still here."

She looked toward the endless sky.

"It only looks that way from below."

The wind returned.

This time...

it carried another word.

The traveler heard it clearly.

"Artist."

He quietly lowered his head.

"No."

he whispered.

"That isn't mine anymore."

The woman looked at him.

Not with surprise.

With curiosity.

"Who took it?"

He opened his mouth.

Ready to answer.

Work.

Time.

Failure.

Growing older.

Life.

Instead...

he couldn't name anyone.

The wind became wonderfully quiet.

The woman gently untied one ribbon from her kite.

She handed it to him.

"What is this for?"

She smiled.

"When the wind forgets."

He looked puzzled.

"The wind forgets?"

"Sometimes."

"It carries so many names..."

"...that occasionally..."

"...it needs someone to remember one."

He held the ribbon carefully.

It felt impossibly light.

They watched another feather become a bird.

It circled the great rings once.

Then quietly became a feather again.

The traveler laughed.

"I wonder which it prefers."

The woman smiled.

"Perhaps..."

"...it stopped choosing."

The sky slowly deepened into amber.

The floating rings glowed brighter.

The traveler finally asked,

"Can I ask something?"

She nodded.

"If the wind keeps bringing back names..."

"...why do people keep losing them?"

She thought for a long while.

Long enough for another hundred feathers to drift by.

Then...

she asked him a question instead.

Very softly.

"So..."

"...when did you begin believing..."

"...that a dream had to become successful..."

"...before you were allowed..."

"...to call it yours?"

The plain fell completely silent.

Even the wind stopped.

For the first time...

the traveler realized...

he couldn't remember.

There had never been a day.

No announcement.

No failure.

Just...

years of quietly introducing himself as someone smaller.

The woman stood.

She lifted the great kite.

The moment it touched the wind...

it disappeared into the copper sky.

Only the ribbon in his hand remained.

"It flew."

he whispered.

She laughed.

"It always wanted to."

They walked together for a little while.

Then the path quietly divided.

One road curved toward distant rings.

The other disappeared into endless wind.

Neither hesitated.

Some journeys become meaningful...

because they continue separately.

Before leaving,

the traveler called after her.

"I never learned your name."

She smiled.

"You heard it."

He frowned.

"When?"

"The first time the wind arrived."

Then she continued walking,

until the feathers slowly hid her from sight.

The traveler remained alone.

The ribbon still rested in his hand.

The wind returned one last time.

Gentler than before.

It whispered only one word.

Not louder.

Only closer.

"Artist."

This time...

he didn't argue.

He simply smiled.

Far above...

the great rings continued turning.

The feathers continued becoming birds.

And somewhere...

without anyone noticing...

a blank canvas became

the beginning

of a painting

instead of

the memory

of one.