THE QUESTIONS THAT REMAIN
GAAFATAA — THE QUESTIONER
The room was full.
Readers.
Writers.
Critics.
Theorists.
People who had followed every question.
People who had forgotten half of them.
People who had returned to old chapters.
And people who simply wanted the story to continue.
One reader raised his hand.
"We've asked enough questions."
I looked at him.
"Have you?"
He sighed.
"Fine.
We've asked a lot of questions."
"Better."
...
Another reader raised her hand.
"Then before we leave these special chapters for now..."
...
"...can we collect the ones that still matter?"
I looked around the room.
"Who decides which ones matter?"
She smiled.
"We do."
...
Interesting.
...
A reader stood.
"I'll start."
...
"What is the ultimate question?"
The room became silent.
He continued.
"We've heard about questions behind answers.
Answers before questions.
Questions that haven't been born yet.
Questions that change how we understand old answers."
...
"So eventually there has to be one."
"What?"
"The final question."
...
"The question that explains everything."
...
"Safsan."
...
"Nafsan."
...
"SEENEE."
...
"Origin."
...
"Sirna."
...
"Reality Door."
...
"THE AUTHOR'S CORE."
...
"The Pen."
...
"The Throne."
...
"Everything."
...
He looked directly at me.
"What is the ultimate question?"
...
I looked back at him.
"Why do you believe
there is only one?"
...
He said nothing.
Neither did anyone else.
...
Another hand rose.
"Then I'll ask something simpler."
"What?"
"Who holds the Pen?"
...
A few people immediately looked upward.
Nothing.
No scratching.
...
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
The reader continued.
"We know the Pen matters."
...
"We've heard it."
...
"We've seen what happens when its sound enters a question."
...
"So who is holding it?"
I asked:
"Must someone be holding it?"
...
"Then can it write by itself?"
"Can it?"
...
"Does the Author hold it?"
"Does he?"
...
"Can someone inside the story reach it?"
"Can they?"
...
"What happens if someone takes it?"
"What do you think?"
...
He became frustrated.
"Then answer this."
...
"If the Pen writes reality..."
...
"...what happens if the Pen itself
is being written?"
...
The room changed.
Nobody moved.
...
Another reader whispered:
"By what?"
...
I looked toward him.
"Isn't that the question?"
...
...
A writer raised her hand.
"Then THE AUTHOR'S CORE."
...
"What is inside it?"
...
I waited.
She continued.
"Is it really a place?"
...
"Is it something physical?"
...
"Is it only a blank page?"
...
"Is it something belonging to the Author?"
...
"Can a character reach it?"
...
"Can someone escape into it?"
...
"Or are we making the mistake
of treating a name
like an explanation?"
...
I asked:
"What have you actually been told
about THE AUTHOR'S CORE?"
...
She thought.
Then smiled.
"Almost nothing."
...
"Then what are you questioning?"
"Our assumptions."
...
Good.
...
Another hand rose.
"The empty throne."
...
Nobody laughed.
...
"What about it?"
The reader looked uncomfortable.
"We've seen it."
...
"An empty seat."
...
"Steps."
...
"A question mark."
...
"And we've been made to wonder
whether it is a reward."
...
"A destination."
...
"A price."
...
"Or something else entirely."
...
I asked:
"Who told you it was any of those things?"
...
"No one."
...
"Then why do you keep returning to it?"
...
He couldn't answer.
Another reader did.
"Because it feels like an answer."
...
"To what?"
...
Silence.
...
Another writer raised his hand.
"And there's the price."
"What price?"
"The price of sitting on it."
...
"What is it?"
I asked.
He stared at me.
"That's what I'M asking."
...
A few people laughed.
...
He continued.
"Time?"
...
"Peace?"
...
"Freedom?"
...
"Certainty?"
...
"Relationships?"
...
"Part of yourself?"
...
"Everything?"
...
I asked:
"Why assume you pay before sitting?"
...
He froze.
...
Another reader slowly raised her hand.
"What if sitting on it IS the price?"
...
No one answered.
...
Good.
...
A writer stood.
"I have a different kind of question."
"What kind?"
"Not cosmology."
...
"Reading."
...
He looked around the room.
"We've talked so much about hidden answers
that readers could become paranoid."
...
"Every sentence."
...
"Every object."
...
"Every joke."
...
"Every background character."
...
"Every comma."
...
"So which way of reading the story
is correct?"
...
A reader answered before I could ask anything.
"The experience I'm having right now."
...
I looked toward her.
"Interesting."
...
She frowned.
"That's all?"
"What else would you like?"
"Tell me whether I'm right."
"Why?"
"Because you're GAAFATAA."
"And what does that mean?"
...
She laughed.
"Never mind."
...
Another reader raised his hand.
"Then how are we supposed to solve the story?"
...
I looked at him.
"Who told you
that you were supposed to solve it?"
...
Silence.
...
He looked down at the book in his hands.
...
Another writer spoke.
"Maybe that's the problem."
"What?"
"We've started treating understanding
as victory."
...
I asked:
"Is it?"
...
He didn't answer.
...
Another hand rose.
"I have one about the Author."
...
"Why give us answers now?"
...
The room quieted again.
The reader continued.
"You said timing matters."
...
"You refused to explain Origin Part I."
...
"You argued that an answer given too early
could steal a future experience."
...
"Then the Pen scratched."
...
"And suddenly..."
...
"the Author allowed it."
...
"We received Origin Part I as a gift."
...
"So why?"
...
"If the timing wasn't right before..."
...
"...what made it right?"
...
I looked toward the place
where I had once heard the Pen.
Nothing.
...
The reader continued.
"Why THAT answer?"
...
"Why Part I?"
...
"Why then?"
...
"What are we supposed to encounter
that required us to know it beforehand?"
...
...
I asked:
"What makes you think
you've encountered the question
that answer belongs to yet?"
...
His expression changed.
...
Another reader whispered:
"Answer before the question."
...
Perhaps.
...
Another hand rose.
"This is intentional, isn't it?"
"What?"
"All of this."
...
"The paranoia."
...
"The questions."
...
"The answers hidden inside questions."
...
"The Pen appearing exactly when we start doubting."
...
"The throne appearing without explanation."
...
"The Author giving us information
and then refusing to explain why."
...
"You're deliberately manipulating
how we read the story."
...
I looked at him.
"Did I?"
...
He stared at me.
"That answer is exactly what I'm talking about."
...
"Was it an answer?"
...
He nearly threw his book at me.
...
Laughter.
...
Then the laughter faded.
A different reader raised his hand.
His question was quieter.
...
"What happened to the couple?"
...
Nobody needed clarification.
...
The young man in Oromia.
The wedding.
The father.
The joke.
The small decisions.
The big decisions.
...
The reader continued.
"How long was the happy marriage?"
...
No one spoke.
...
"Did they get the home they talked about?"
...
"Did they have children?"
...
"Did they save money?"
...
"Did they choose their furniture?"
...
"Did they argue about food?"
...
"Did the father live long enough
to tell that joke again?"
...
"What happened
when the real big decisions came?"
...
I looked at him.
"What answer are you hoping for?"
...
"A happy one."
...
"And if it isn't?"
...
He couldn't answer.
...
Another reader raised her hand.
"Then tell us this instead."
...
"What decision started the war?"
...
I looked toward her.
"Which war?"
She didn't smile.
"You know which one."
...
"What kind of decision are you searching for?"
"The decision that changed everything."
...
"Why assume there was only one?"
...
She paused.
Then continued.
"You implied something important
may have happened before anyone even called it war."
...
"So what was it?"
...
"A political decision?"
...
"An economic one?"
...
"A military one?"
...
"A personal one?"
...
"A decision made publicly?"
...
"Privately?"
...
"By one person?"
...
"By many?"
...
"Did the person making it
understand what would follow?"
...
"Could someone have stopped it?"
...
"Was the decision itself enormous?"
...
"Or did it look..."
...
She stopped.
...
"...small?"
...
The room remembered.
THE BIG DECISIONS.
...
No answer came.
...
Then...
one final hand rose.
...
"What waits in the mist?"
...
Everything became quiet.
Not because the question was complicated.
Because everyone knew exactly which mist.
...
BAAČ.
THE CONTINENT OF BURDEN.
...
The reader continued.
"Safsan crossed the door."
...
"He's there now."
...
"So what is waiting for him?"
...
"Why does the Continent of Burden
appear peaceful?"
...
"Who will he meet?"
...
"What will he remember?"
...
"What will he lose?"
...
"What happened while he was unconscious?"
...
"Why did Jalatta survive?"
...
"What happened to Kairo?"
...
"What is hidden beyond the mist?"
...
"What is that enormous thing
we still cannot see clearly?"
...
"And what happens
when the burden Safsan carries inside himself
meets a continent
carrying its own?"
...
Silence.
...
The reader waited.
Everyone waited.
...
I asked:
"Do you really want me
to tell you?"
...
He opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
...
He looked toward the others.
...
Then smiled.
"No."
...
Interesting.
...
"Why not?"
...
He looked toward the mist
that existed only in his imagination.
...
"Because I want to see it with Safsan."
...
...
Nobody raised another hand.
For once...
the questions were enough.
...
I looked around the room.
At everything we had asked.
WHAT IS THE ULTIMATE QUESTION?
?????
WHO HOLDS THE PEN?
?????
WHAT IF THE PEN ITSELF IS BEING WRITTEN?
?????
WHAT IS THE AUTHOR'S CORE?
?????
WHAT DOES THE EMPTY THRONE MEAN?
?????
WHAT IS ITS PRICE?
?????
WHICH READING IS CORRECT?
?????
ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO SOLVE THE STORY?
?????
WHY DID THE AUTHOR GIVE YOU ORIGIN PART I NOW?
?????
WAS THE PARANOIA INTENTIONAL?
?????
HOW LONG DID THE HAPPY MARRIAGE LAST?
?????
WHICH INVISIBLE DECISION BEGAN THE WAR?
?????
WHAT WAITS IN THE MIST OF BAAČ?
?????
...
So many questions.
Perhaps some already have answers.
Perhaps some answers have already appeared.
Perhaps some questions are wrong.
Perhaps some are missing words.
Perhaps some will matter years from now.
Perhaps some will never matter again.
...
And perhaps...
the greatest mistake would be believing
you must answer all of them
before you are allowed
to continue the story.
...
A reader raised his hand.
One last time.
"Then what do we do now?"
...
I looked at him.
No Pen scratched.
No throne appeared.
No page changed.
No answer descended from somewhere beyond the story.
...
I asked:
"Where did we leave Safsan?"
...
The reader smiled.
"In the mist."
...
"And what happens if we stop asking questions
for a moment?"
...
He looked toward BAAČ.
...
"We follow him."
...
Exactly.
...
No more special chapters.
Not for now.
The questions can remain here.
Waiting.
The answers can remain
wherever they are.
...
Because Safsan has crossed the door.
BAAČ is ahead.
The mist is waiting.
And perhaps the next thing this story needs
is not another explanation.
Not another theory.
Not another warning.
Not another question about the architecture.
...
Perhaps...
it simply needs
the next chapter.
...
Scratch.
...
Nobody turned.
...
Good.
...
GAAFATAA
THE QUESTIONER
THE QUESTIONS REMAIN.
THE STORY CONTINUES.
NEXT:
SAFSAN STORY
BAAČ