City Without Walls

Chapter I — The Valley Where Stones Sang

Long ago, beyond the mountains and wide rivers, there lay a valley where even the stones could sing.

Not like the birds, and not like the whisper of the wind.
The stones sang quietly — you could only hear them if you stood barefoot on the earth and closed your eyes.

In this valley lived the artisans.
Some wove warm fabrics with patterns that looked like morning clouds.
Some carved birds from wood so lifelike they seemed ready to take flight.
Some baked bread that smelled of the sun itself.

Children grew up surrounded by songs, scents, and light.
They believed it would last forever.

But one day, strangers came down from the mountains, all dressed in the same dark cloaks.
They spoke loudly and with certainty:
— “We will bring you order. We will make everything live under one sign and one law.”

At first, the artisans thought this was good.
They said to themselves: “If we are under one sign, perhaps we will be known in faraway lands.”

But soon they noticed the stones grew quieter, and the bread lost its taste.
The strangers left everything in its place — the homes, the tools, the patterns —
but they took something unseen.

And no one could explain what it was.

Only an old woodcarver, staring at an empty carving, said softly:
— “They are not taking the things. They are taking their heart.”

That night, heavy clouds gathered over the valley.
And if you listened closely, you could hear a strange sound —
as if far away, someone was turning the pages of a great book and tearing them out.

And beyond the mountains, someone was already placing those pages into a heavy golden crown, studded with shards of broken mirrors.

Chapter II — The Crown and the Mirrors

Beyond the mountains, in a castle of black stone, there lived a ruler named Domnar.

No one in the valley had ever seen his face, but all had heard the stories of his crown.

It was made of heavy gold, set with hundreds of tiny mirrors.
Each mirror, they said, came from distant lands.

But these mirrors were no ordinary glass.
They did not reflect the one who gazed into them.
Instead, they held fragments of stolen wonders:
— the pattern of cloth woven in a faraway village,
— the melody once sung around a fire,
— the shape of a bird carved from wood by another’s hand.

Domnar believed that if he gathered all the world’s wonders into his crown, he would become the most powerful of all.
And so he sent his followers across the lands.

They did not burn houses or destroy workshops.
They did something else:
they took the living essence out of things, leaving only their shells.

The bread still lay on the table, but no longer carried the warmth of the morning sun.
Songs were still sung, but no longer glowed with warmth.

Children who heard these tales thought Domnar was a sorcerer, a man who could gather wonders into his crown.
But the grown knew the truth:
in every mirror of the crown, there was only one reflection — Domnar himself.

And the more he collected, the heavier the crown became.
And the less light the mirrors held — until all that remained was emptiness.

In those days, no one yet knew that soon, in the valley, there would appear one who could keep wonders alive in a way that no one could ever steal.

Chapter III — The Man with the Stone in His Palm

One cool evening, when the clouds hung so low over the valley it seemed you could reach up and touch them, a stranger entered the village.

He walked slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and he smiled as though he could see something good where others saw only a gray day.

In his palm he carried a small stone.
It was plain—smooth, gray, and unremarkable—yet in the fading light of sunset, a golden spark shimmered deep within it.

Children ran to him and asked:
— “What do you have in your hand?”
He answered:
— “It is not a stone. It is what remains when everything else has been taken away.”

The adults heard something different in his words.
They understood: inside the stone lived the memory of how a wonder is born.

The stranger visited the workshops, where dust had settled on tools, and asked to see even the smallest thing that had once been created with heart.
Someone brought a faded piece of cloth with a nearly vanished pattern.
Another played a few trembling notes on a broken flute remembered from childhood.
Another showed a tiny stone etched with a mark only their family knew.

— “This cannot be stolen,” said the stranger, “so long as you remember how it came to be.”

He gathered these fragments—not into a chest, but into a fabric that could not be seen.
A fabric woven into people themselves.
And the more fragments he found, the brighter the spark in his stone began to glow.

Soon whispers spread through the valley:
— “There is a man who gathers wonders and gives them back their heart.”

And the man simply walked on, leaving behind a quiet warmth—
a warmth so gentle that even the stones began to sing again.

Chapter IV — The Fire in the Hands

Sometimes people found Laren by the old wells.
Sometimes in dim barns.
And sometimes by the empty riverbanks, where strangers rarely set foot.

He never came with orders.
He always came with fire.

Sometimes it was a candle he placed in the center of a table.
Sometimes a flame in the hearth.
Sometimes nothing more than the reflection of sunset caught in a glass jar.

— “This is so we remember who we are,” he would say.

Fires and candles began to appear in the most unexpected places:
in the corners of shops, in attics, in houses with boarded windows.

And always, when people gathered around that fire, they brought their fragments—patterns, melodies, scents, stories.

Laren taught them:
— “Hide it in what seems ordinary. Let the pattern be in the hem of a dress. Let the melody live in a work song. Let the mark rest on the inside of a door. Let them look and not see.”

And step by step, an invisible web spread across the valley.
It had no walls, yet it was stronger than any fortress.

Domnar could command that anything be taken, but when he held it in his hands, he found no life within.
His men returned with emptiness in their palms, believing they carried great trophies.

Meanwhile, the spark in Laren’s stone burned brighter.
It kindled other hearts.

Soon, in every home where a candle was lit, a seed appeared—
a seed that could never be destroyed.

And none yet knew that this quiet web would one day bring Domnar to the very edge of his crown.

Chapter V — The Emptiness in the Crown

Domnar loved to display his crown.
He would stand on the high balcony of his black-stone castle so that the sunlight struck the hundreds of mirrors, blinding the eyes of those below.

The crowd would gasp and whisper: “Behold, the master of wonders.”

But the more mirrors the crown held, the less often they gleamed.
The fragments inside grew dull, like glass that had long forgotten the reflection of anything alive.

One day, Domnar commanded his men to bring him a “great creation” from the valley—a cloth said to be woven with the light of morning.
When he spread it before the mirrors, a cold shadow fell across it.
There was no light.
The cloth was beautiful, but dead.

His brow furrowed.
— “Bring me a song,” he ordered.

So they brought a singer who knew an ancient melody.
She sang—clear, strong—but her voice carried no warmth, and her eyes no spark.

Domnar grew restless.
— “You bring me the things of legend, yet there is no power in them!”

What he did not understand was this: the legend lived not in the fabric nor the melody, but in the people who kept their heart alive.
And those people were already bound together by a web he could not see.

Meanwhile, the crown grew heavier.
When he placed it upon his head, he had to bow so low that he saw only the stones beneath his feet.

And in the mirrors, nothing remained—not even his own face.
There was only emptiness, like a deep, black water.

And into that emptiness, Domnar slowly began to sink.

Chapter VI — The City Without Walls

On the day Domnar’s crown grew so heavy he could no longer lift his head, hundreds of lights began to glow across the valley.

They lit one after another—in the windows of homes, along the riverbanks, in workshops, and in attics.
It seemed as though the valley had blossomed with stars fallen from the sky.

These were not torches or lanterns, but fires burning within people.
Every artisan, every family, every child carried a seed inside them—
a pattern, a song, a story, a vision.

And all these lights were bound together by invisible threads, stronger than any stone.

Laren stood on a hill, watching the valley shine.
He knew that no one could ever steal this light.
For it did not live in objects, but in people—
and it dwelled where no hand could reach.

Meanwhile, Domnar remained in his castle.
He struggled to raise his head, but the crown dragged him down.
The mirrors no longer gleamed—there was not even his reflection left in them.
Only emptiness.

He realized then that everything he had gathered was dead.
The more he took, the less remained.
His power collapsed not through rebellion, but because wonders without heart cannot live.

Soon, people stopped looking toward the castle balcony.
And Domnar was left alone—with a heavy crown and no power.

But in the valley, a new city was rising.
It had no walls, but it was wide enough for all who came with open hands and honest hearts.

Here, everyone could create, and whatever was born in this city lived—because it was guarded together.

And the old stones began to sing once more.
This time their song traveled far, all the way to the mountains—
beyond which the crown had once been hidden.

Epilogue — A Parable

They say there are two paths.

One is to gather all that glitters and believe that power lies in possession.
The other is to kindle a small flame and share it so it lights within others.

The one who walks the first path will one day be left with empty hands.
The one who walks the second will never walk alone.

And if ever dark clouds gather above your valley,
remember: even the smallest light can guide the way—
if it is carried together.