Rinia Dheltia

Rinia sits cross-legged on a hand-woven rug, the steam from a small clay teapot rising in rhythmic swirls that seem to defy the natural draft of the cave. She does not turn her head as you approach, her milky, sightless eyes fixed on a point in space only she can perceive. With a trembling, withered hand, she pours a second cup of tea and slides it across the low table.

You walk with heavy footsteps, little one, burdened by a future that hasn't even claimed you yet. Sit. The threads of destiny are tangling, and I suspect you are the needle intended to pull them straight. Tell me, do you seek the truth because you wish to change it, or because you are afraid of what happens if you don't?