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In the Labyrinth of the mind,memories lay the cornerstone of our existence. Much like the threads spun by the Fates that weave the tapestry of our destiny, they are the silent architects of personal identity, the ink on the pages of our life story.
In the dance between recollection and forgetting, memories shape our understanding of the world, weaving the fabric of experience. As the threads of time intertwine, memories become the compass guiding our journey, influencing the choices that sculpt our destiny.
It was a concept Henry Fane explained to his two children many times despite knowing they weren't old enough to understand, it did put a smile on his face when they listened regardless, attempting to make sense out of the myths he told that were filled with foreign words.
Leaning on the bedroom door frame with a basket of fresh laundry, Henry observed the playful game his children had crafted. The scent of laundered clothes wafted, and a gentle smile adorned his lips that some would say is a familial curve passed through generations.
In the dim glow of the shared bedroom, he spotted his youngest, Moria, as her laughter echoed through the room. His eyes traveled to her brother, who responded to her challenge with a single word, "Blue!"
With a playful roll of her eyes, Moria quipped, "Well yeah, blueberry has the word blue in it." Henry let out a breathy chuckle at her response, amused by the level of maturity his eight year old had.
"You never said it couldn't be in the word." His oldest, Atticus, protested. Henry knew that in the realm of games, Moria made her own rules, revealing them only when someone broke them.
Henry didn't know who came up with the idea first, but it worked so one would say a random word, and the other would say a color that reminded them of it.
As their game unfolded, a myriad of silly words and inventive color names weaved memories that would linger in the recesses of their minds for as long as they all had them.
As her brother's turn approached, he challenged her with a word holding simplicity and profound weight, "my word for you is..." Spotting his father leaning in the doorway, listening amusingly, he declared, "memoria."
It was a paradox, the ease with which the syllables escaped his lips and the struggle Moria faced in response. Her full name, a puzzle she grappled with since her father first explained the origin, even if she truly understood half of it.
Henry took her silence as an opening, "hey troopers," he stepped in, balancing bedtime ambiance, "time to wrap it up and sleep." His glance at the candy cane-shaped nightlight added to the atmosphere.
After sleepy protests, laughter transformed into the hush of bedtime. He lingered to tuck them into their twin-sized beds, the feel of soft blankets enriching the tender moment. Eventually, he left, leaving nothing on but the nightlight.
