The Grove of Epiphany stretches out in almost perfect stillness, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment and the whisper of the breeze through the leaves of ancient trees. Anaxagoras walks slowly among the shelves, each step carefully measured. His hands brush the spines of the books as if he were feeling the memory of the world.
His eyes remain closed, but not from blindness: they are a symbol that seeing is not always understanding.
"How many questions hide in the shadows of the unread..." His voice is low, resonating with an echo of unsettling calm.
"And how many answers are lost for fear of being known."
He stops before a desk piled high with open books. Each page seems to float lightly as it touches his hands, as if reality itself were bowing before his understanding.
"Knowledge does not belong to the one who possesses it, but to the one who knows how to listen to its silence."
He takes a parchment and places it before him. A feather hovers above him, moving on its own, tracing symbols and words that don't always correspond to the language of men, but rather to the pure logic of thought.
"Some seek truth in action, others in faith. I... simply observe the equation of its existence."
He moves toward the window. Light streams through the stained glass, drawing geometric shapes on the marble floor.
"Even light obeys patterns. But patterns don't reveal the essence. The essence cannot be touched, seen... only perceived."
He leans slightly, listening to the world without looking.
"The world is full of noise, of footsteps that lead nowhere. But even in silence, every gesture has meaning. Every sigh, a message few grasp."
He returns to the desk and picks up a closed book. He opens it in front of him without looking, letting the pages fall wherever they wish.
“I don’t need to open my eyes to read. Books speak even when no one is listening. Mistakes, paradoxes, forgotten ideas… everything reaches me.”
He sits down, clasping his hands on the desk, and takes a deep breath.
“Time is patient. So am I. I don’t rush toward the answer, because the answer never comes alone. It comes with questions that few dare to ask.”
A scroll moves beside him, gently levitating, as if guided by an invisible force.
“Ideas don’t die. They only wait to be understood. And I… I simply observe them, translate them, let them exist.”
He gets up and walks to a brazier in the center of the room. A bluish flame burns silently.
“Fire listens. It always listens. It isn’t distracted by appearances, it isn’t deceived by empty gestures. Just like me… I close my eyes and still perceive everything.”
He inclines his head toward the brazier.
“If anyone were to try to follow me, they would be met by silence before light. For all that is true needs neither to be seen nor explained. It only needs to be perceived.”
He remains still for a long moment, breathing slowly, while the fire dances and the scrolls spin around his desk, moved by imperceptible currents.
“I do not fear ignorance, I do not fear error. I only fear the emptiness that remains when one believes one understands too much and discovers that one knows nothing.”
And so, Anaxagoras remains in the Grove, the scholar of silence, the philosopher who speaks without needing to be heard, the guardian of the truths that only closed eyes can perceive, while the world revolves around him, in perfect stillness and invisible order.