THE FOOL

Before I knew who I was, I lived underground.

I was seven years old, and the world still had no clear names. It wasn’t a hiding place or a punishment, but an underground fortress, located at the heart of a larger Citadel, a living construction within a vast cavity, a void where silence had weight. From a massive crack in the earth’s crust, the rising sun descended each morning like a golden sword, illuminating the Citadel, secret gardens, marble corridors, and trees that grew without touching the sky. The light didn’t enter: it blessed.

This place had once belonged to pearl traffickers, men who believed that beauty could be kept and possessed. When they fell, the Citadel was entrusted to guardians. My father was one of them: General of the Threshold, protector of the realm, keeper of balance. I watched him walk with the weight of duty on his shoulders, as if he were holding the entire Citadel together to keep it from breaking.

The artisans inhabited this space.

They forged invisible swords: discipline, strength, order. They wore uniforms like soft armor, and their bodies were large, firm, calm. I watched them in silence. I didn’t know why, but something within me lit up watching them move, work, exist. It wasn’t desire yet. It was a quiet fascination, a recognition I didn’t fully understand.

In that underground fortress, I learned to watch.

To feel before understanding.

Sometimes, in the empty rooms of the old palace—crystal halls, enormous beds, corridors that echoed with nonexistent footsteps—I played with Diana. We were two creatures exploring a world that didn’t belong to us. Under blankets too big for our bodies, we kissed. It was an innocent gesture, a game between us, and yet it made me feel that there was something different within me. From there, I began to sense that I was drawn to feelings and attractions different from those of the other children.

The fortress protected me. Its walls were high, closed off from the outside world. No one looked inside. No one judged. I could feel without being observed.

Nearby was the school:

an underground palace covered in a green mist, as if the emeralds themselves were breathing. The walls shimmered with a damp, living light. We children walked like apprentices, small beings without names, learning to exist.

There I met the wizard.

He didn’t wear a robe, but his presence transformed the air. He was tall, strong, with dark hair and a mole next to his mouth: an ancient mark. He performed no visible spells; his magic was attention. When he looked at me, I existed more fully. When he smiled, the world aligned.

I wanted to show him what I knew.

I wanted him to see my mind.

I brought him my tasks as offerings. I expected nothing more than his recognition. He crossed no boundaries, for true wizards know the limits. But he taught me something more important than knowledge: that I was different, and that it mattered.

Before leaving that space, I presented myself to everyone. The others promised easy rewards: sweets, rest, small comforts. I spoke of art, expression, spaces where the soul could breathe. I was not celebrated with noise, but when I finished, I ran to him.

The wizard lifted me into his arms and said,

“You did very well.”

In that instant, something broke and something was born.

It was not love.

It was destiny.

Afterward, I left that fortress and the Citadel. The world became harsher, colder. Like a prison without magic. I never saw him again. Sometimes, passing near the old threshold, I remember his mole, his arms, his gaze.

And then I understand:

it wasn’t he who made me The Fool.

It was the crack.

The light.

The hidden fortress.

The Citadel.

The General.

The artisans.

The magic without a name.

The Fool does not walk into the void.

He walks toward the invisible.