Leaving Vic.

The morning sun fell on the cobblestones of Vic, warm and forgiving. Daniel sat at a small outdoor table, a necessary espresso and a bottle of Vichy Catalan before him. It was a Sunday, the third day of his pilgrimage, and he was taking a moment to sit, to simply be, before the day’s stage.

He had thought of the others, the lycra-clad cyclists who pedalled furiously, bodies in motion but souls in stasis, forever gossiping, forever hollow. He thought of his sister, Emma, and her own brand of hollowness, a person contaminated by the ten thousand things. The memory of the glass vase loomed, a physical manifestation of a spiritual void, a moment of such blinding rage that it was almost impossible to comprehend. He had not defended himself, and in that stillness, he had found a kind of clarity. He saw her, not as a family member, but as a person lost in her own fear and anger.

He had made his choice. He loved her still, "warts and all," but he would no longer spend his life trying to placate a ghost. He would leave her to her umbra, her shadow, and her belief that her child was an extension of herself, a "Bear" she had to control. He saw her for what she was, a performance without a person, and in doing so, he saw his own path more clearly. His own name, Daniel, was now free.

He thought of the girl in the cafe, her tray of pastries slipping to the floor. An act of grace, a quiet piece of chaos he had helped to resolve, with no expectation of thanks or reward. A small moment of pure presence. This was his sello, the mark of his journey. It wasn't on a piece of paper, but in the quiet act of helping. He was his own proof.

He finished his coffee, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, the bitterness of the espresso on his tongue. The six nights ahead of him, the six stages, seemed no longer a burden, but a philosophical statement. Six was two times three. Duality and unity. He had walked away from the two—the conflict, the betrayal, the pain—and was now, with every step, moving toward the one. He was not a stamp collector. He was the stamp. He was the journey itself. He stood, adjusted his pack, and stepped back onto the path.