Pablo tells you a story

Pablo settled more comfortably against the tree trunk, his voice dropping to the measured cadence of a storyteller sharing something long held close.

“A few weeks ago, while guiding my goats to new pasture, I wandered farther south than I ever had before,” he began. “The path narrowed, the oaks grew thicker, and suddenly the forest opened onto a small clearing I had never seen marked on any shepherd’s map. A hidden settlement, Nereus—barely a league from Thespia, yet screened so perfectly by the trees that it might as well lie beyond the edge of the world.”

Nereus leaned forward slightly, the last of the bread forgotten in his hand. “A village? Hidden so close?”

Pablo nodded. “The houses are humble—mud-brick walls, thatched roofs, vines trained along every eave—but arranged with care, as though each stone and beam had been placed with love. At the heart stands a temple, modest in size yet striking: whitewashed columns, carvings of twining vines and blooming flowers that catch the light like living things. I stood there gaping like a boy at his first festival.”

He paused, letting the image settle between them.

“The people came out to greet me. No suspicion, no guarded questions—just open hands and warm smiles. They invited me to share their midday meal: olives, flatbread, honeyed figs, spring water so clear it tasted of stone. I stayed longer than I intended, listening to their talk. They live simply, without coin or granaries bursting at the seams, yet I have never seen faces so free of care. They speak of the body as a gift of the gods, something to be honored rather than hidden, and they celebrate that honor in ways most villages would call scandalous.”

Nereus’s brow lifted. “Scandalous how?”

Pablo met his gaze without flinching. “They go unclothed when the weather allows, and when desire stirs, they do not shut themselves behind closed doors. Publicly, openly, without shame or secrecy. It is part of their worship—union as prayer, pleasure as praise. No one is ****, no one is judged. They call it the Way of Harmony.”

Nereus gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re telling me you stumbled onto a settlement of naked revelers who rut in the daylight like animals in season?”

“Not animals,” Pablo corrected gently. “Worshippers. They believe the divine spark lives in every touch, every sigh. And they welcome strangers who come in good faith. Anyone may join, stay as long as they wish—or leave whenever the call of the outer world grows too strong.”

Nereus studied his friend’s face, searching for jest and finding none. “Then why didn’t you stay?”

Pablo’s smile turned wistful. “I have a wife who waits for me at dusk, two small children who run to the gate when they hear my step. My heart is tethered here, to the ordinary joys and ordinary burdens of Thespia. But you…” He let the word hang between them. “You have no such ties. No roof, no hearth, no kin who claim you. This place could be a refuge—or at least a change from holding out your palm to people who cross the street when they see you coming.”

Bitterness rose in Nereus’s throat like bile. “So that’s it. The kind-hearted goatherd wants the troublesome beggar gone from his tidy little town.”

“No.” Pablo’s voice was firm, almost sharp. “I want you to have something better than scraps and scorn. I want you to remember what it feels like to be wanted, not pitied. Whether that happens here or in those woods is your choice. I’m only passing on what I saw.”

He rose then, brushing dust from his knees. “This bread and water is all I have to give today. May the gods guide your steps, my friend—wherever they lead.”

With a final nod, Pablo turned and walked away down the path, his silhouette shrinking between the olive trunks until the morning light swallowed him whole.

Nereus remained where he was, the half-eaten bread growing heavy in his palm. For the first time in months the future felt less like an empty begging bowl and more like a fork in a shadowed road—one path familiar and bitter, the other veiled in green mystery and whispered promise.