Never Ask Into a Hollow

“Laia, were you ever married?”

“Yes, little one, yes. Briefly as the sunset, but perhaps that is long enough.”

“What was his name?”

“The name is not important anymore. There was one, of course, but it would mean nothing to you. A word like discordant notes played on a piano.”

“Did he die?”

“Not all who are not here have died, my little one.”

“Can I meet him?”

“Anyone can, but I’m not sure you will.”

“Why?”

“You ask many questions, a great many questions. You know, some mysteries are like a hole in a leaf left by a gypsy moth. Can you ever hope to fill this gap with questions?”

“You mean we will never know the answer?”

“No, child. No, the answer was there once but has been taken, incised by mandibles and cut out and digested, leaving an absence. A hole in your smock can be repaired with a needle and thread. But this sort of hollowed-out absence is perhaps for the best.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember this, little one: never ask into a hollow, or you just might make it hollower.”