... Are You Happy?

In the quiet of the room, the faint, slow notes of a clavichord lingered, flickering like candlelight in the deep night. It was Europe, in the autumn of 1823.

I had been a secretary to Duke Aldrecht for four years. It was not a bad position. The small room on the third floor of the manor looked out over the city’s central square—enough light to read, enough silence to write. I had sufficient food, decent clothes. And the Duke, despite his cold, aristocratic demeanor—a trait of those born to be served—was not a bad man.

Every morning I sat at my desk, opening thick files, writing letters, contracts, schedules. Sometimes poetry—the Duke occasionally wrote poems, and he needed someone to transcribe them beautifully. Four years passed like that, steady and quiet. Nothing was wrong. But nothing felt particularly right, either.

I still remember the night of the ball. The Duke hosted a gala in early winter—the kind of event the whole city spoke about for a month beforehand. Candles were lit throughout the great hall, and the scent of lilies and wax mingled in the air. The sound of violins from the orchestra in the corner flowed like warm water over cold stone. But from where I stood, the gala’s music sounded distant and blurred, as if it belonged to another world.

I stood at the edge of the hall with my notebook in hand—my job was to remember who met whom, who promised what. I observed everyone, while no one observed me. Duke Aldrecht stood in the center, surrounded by important guests. He laughed—the kind of smile that knew exactly when to appear. He said the right things. He wore the perfect attire. He had everything that people claimed would bring happiness.

And I looked into his eyes—in a fleeting moment between two sentences, when he was no longer performing for anyone—and saw something hauntingly familiar. That emptiness. I recognized it because I had it, too.

That night, when the violin music had long faded, leaving the night in absolute silence, I returned to my room and sat by the window, looking down at the square. Outside, winter’s first snow was falling—tiny, drifting flakes that seemed in no hurry at all. The streetlights reflected off the snow, casting a dim glow that belonged to neither day nor night.

I took out my diary and wrote: Am I happy today?

I looked at the question for a moment, then crossed it out. Not because I had the answer, but because I did not know where to begin.

The next morning, a short letter from Lena arrived, brought by a messenger. She was always like that—perceptive in a strange, inexplicable way.

“Élia, are you okay? I don’t mean ‘okay’ in the usual sense. I’m asking if you are truly okay.”

I read those words three times. Then, I wrote a request to the Duke for two weeks of leave—the first time in four years. He agreed without asking why. Perhaps he saw something in my eyes that I didn’t know I was revealing.

I packed a small bag. Warm clothes. A diary. A little money. I sent a note to Lena saying I was heading toward the western valley, and then I set off. Nothing more.

The sound of carriage wheels rattling over stone streets, the steady clatter of hooves, and the howling of the winter wind were the only sounds accompanying me on my journey. I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I just knew I had to leave—to get out of the familiar hallways, the repetitive mornings, the files waiting to be filled.

People often say they travel to find themselves. But I didn’t think I had lost myself anywhere. I was still here—still me, still waking up every morning, still knowing my own name. I just wanted to know what I would feel without those four walls surrounding me. When there was no reason to behave in any particular way.

The First Inn

The first inn where I stopped was a small house on the edge of town—thatched roof, stone walls, the window glowing with warm yellow light in the winter night. Upon stepping through the wooden door, the crackle of a fire in the hearth greeted me, warm and welcoming, mingled with the scent of toasted bread and warm wine.

The innkeeper was an old man—gray beard, rough hands, but his movements were slow and steady. His wife sat near the fireplace, knitting. The knitting needles clicked rhythmically in the quiet space. They didn’t speak to each other all evening. They didn’t even look at each other. He tended to the guests. She tended to the knitting and occasionally added logs to the fire.

But when I had nearly finished my meal, he walked past her—without stopping, without a word—and simply placed a cup of hot tea beside her before continuing on. She looked down at the tea. She didn’t look up. She didn’t say a word. She just smiled faintly.

I watched the scene and didn’t know what to call that feeling. Not jealousy. Not sadness. Just something shifting slightly in my chest—like a window pushed ajar by the wind, then shut again. How long had they been together? Thirty years? Forty? And the way they existed beside each other without needing to prove anything—without needing to say ‘I care about you,’ just a cup of tea at the right moment—perhaps that was a form of happiness I had never known the name of.

The Village Market

The next town I reached happened to be on market day. The central square was bustling with voices, the sound of bargaining mixed with the laughter of children running between stalls, and the distant tolling of the church bell serving as the background to it all. The air was rich with the scent of roasted apples and savory cheese.

A woman selling apples—middle-aged, cheeks flushed from the cold, her voice loud and hearty—was telling a story to a customer and burst into loud laughter before she even finished. The customer laughed, too. The laughter rippled through the market like a wave. I stopped and bought a small bag of apples.

“Are you from the city?” she asked, looking me straight in the face. “You look different.”

“Different how?” I asked.

She thought for a moment and smiled. “The kind of person who is looking for something but doesn’t know what they’re looking for.”

I didn’t know what to say. She gave me an extra apple, beyond what I had paid for. “Eat it for the long road ahead. And dear—don’t look too hard. Sometimes it’s right here, and we miss it because we’re looking elsewhere.”

She turned back to her next customer, laughing as if nothing had happened. I walked a little way, then stopped, looking at the apple in my hand. She didn’t know me. She didn’t know the question I carried. But she saw through me, seeing exactly what I thought I was hiding. Perhaps that emptiness was more visible than I thought.

The Boy and the Sheep

The road out of town led through vast fields—golden autumn grass, hand-stacked stone fences, and in the distance, snow-capped mountains reflecting the morning sunlight. The wind whistled across the meadow, carrying the distant, rhythmic ringing of sheep bells.

I was walking when I heard crying. A boy—about ten years old, in a thick sweater, wearing a woolen hat pulled to one side—stood by the fence, crying loudly. Not far away, a small lamb was stuck between two thorny bushes, bleating in panic. I went over to help—pulling the lamb from the thorns. It wasn’t difficult, but it needed an extra pair of hands.

The lamb was freed and ran toward the flock. The boy stopped crying immediately. He watched the lamb run. He looked at me. Then—for no reason, as if the emotion had completely vanished—he broke into a wide grin and ran after the sheep, calling its name as if calling a friend who had just been saved.

I stood watching for a long time. The boy had cried genuinely—without restraint, without hiding it. And then laughed genuinely—without needing a transition, without needing a reason. Emotions came and went like the wind across the field, leaving no trace behind.

I wondered—when had I learned to prolong emotions, to analyze them before allowing myself to feel them? And was it because I managed them so carefully—never too sad, never too happy—that I wasn’t truly present in any moment?

Lena’s Letter

That evening, I stopped at a large town at the foot of the mountains and visited the local post station. Among the letters waiting for collection, the clerk handed me a familiar envelope—Lena had sent it via the express mail coach to wait for me. I returned to my inn room, sat by the fire, listening to the crackling wood and the soft, drizzling rain outside the window, and read slowly.

“Élia, I heard you’ve left. Good.

I had a bad day today. A meeting to check inventory with the textile mill owner—you know the type. He rejected every suggestion I made for reorganizing the work without giving any reason. I came home so angry I couldn’t speak.

Then I cooked porridge. Ate. Sat and watched the fire for a while. And I thought—well, tomorrow is still tomorrow. Today’s misery doesn’t make me a miserable person. And funny enough, after thinking that, I felt fine.

You always ask me why I’m always ‘okay.’ I don’t know how to explain it. I just don’t demand that life be perfect in order to feel okay. If I’m frustrated, I’m frustrated. If I’m sad, I’m sad. Then it passes. No need to hold onto it.

You call it ‘letting go.’ I call it ‘accepting.’ We’ve been arguing about this since we were kids, and neither has won. Have a good trip. And if you find the answer—remember to tell me.

— Lena”

I read the letter twice. Then I looked out the window—outside was the night, and snow was falling lightly on the roofs across the way. I don’t demand that life be perfect in order to feel okay.

I thought back to those evenings sitting at the manor window, looking down at the people below, feeling as if I were standing outside looking in. I had thought it was because I was missing something. But perhaps—I was just waiting for there to be enough before I allowed myself to be inside.

The Lost Traveler

The next morning, on the trail climbing toward the mountains, the only sounds were the wind whistling through the rocks and the crunch of my boots on the rough gravel. Along the way, I met a middle-aged man—large backpack, paper map in hand, standing there with a look of complete disorientation.

We used German—our common middle ground—to communicate. He was looking for the path to the western valley, but his old map didn’t match the current terrain due to a landslide last year. I knew the way, thanks to the innkeeper the night before. I explained it, then walked with him for a stretch to the turnoff.

At the junction, he stopped and shook my hand firmly.

“Danke schön. I’ve been walking in circles all morning. You just saved my day.”

He left. I stood watching until his figure disappeared behind a bend in the mountain. Then I realized I was smiling—alone, on the deserted trail. In that moment, I wasn’t thinking about my question. I wasn’t thinking about the manor, the Duke, or four years of transcribing letters. I had just helped someone find their way. Five minutes. Nothing special. But the relief in my chest afterward—it was real. More real than many things I had spent so long searching for.

Rain

That afternoon, I was sitting on a large rock halfway up the trail, looking out over the valley below—when thick clouds rolled in from the west. Rain began—the first drops large and biting cold, drumming against the stone and dry leaves. Then harder. Then harder still. In the distance, a thunderclap rumbled, still very far away.

I knew I should get up and find shelter. But I didn’t get up immediately. I sat still. My coat soaked through. My hair stuck to my forehead. Water ran down my neck and back.

And then—for no reason, with nothing leading up to it—I laughed. Alone. In the rain. On a mountainside without a soul in sight. I didn’t know why I laughed. Perhaps because I was foolish enough to sit still and let the rain pour over me instead of running. Perhaps because since I was already soaked, there was nothing left to preserve—no posture to maintain, no image to protect. Perhaps because it had been so long since I had allowed something to happen to me without trying to control it first.

I laughed until my lungs were filled with cold air, then I stood up and ran to a shallow stone cavern nearby for shelter. The mountain rain poured for a while before tapering off after an hour, returning the silence until the birds began to chirp again in the trees.

The afternoon sun broke through the clouds—that kind of warm, golden light that only comes after the rain, when all the dust has been washed away. The grass shone almost brightly. The scent of wet earth and fresh grass rose into the cold, clear air. I sat leaning against the stone wall a while longer, not in a hurry to stand, my fingers brushing against the wet grass beside the cave. Just sitting. And feeling.

For the first time in the trip—perhaps the first time in a very long time—I didn’t ask myself what I was feeling. I just sat there, and felt.

The Valley

The next morning, I climbed the final trail—steeper, narrower, through thinning trees until there was only stone, grass, and the sky. As I reached the crest of the slope, a gentle, warm melody, like the morning sun, resonated within my heart. The wind brushed past my ears; the flowers and grass rustled with soft movement.

Lena had arrived before me. I didn’t know how—she hadn’t written—but as I reached the ridge, she was standing there. Dressed in a dark blue sweater, her hair blowing in the wind, looking out ahead. It turned out that instead of walking the long way around for days like me, she had taken time off and caught the mail coach that cut across the forest, arriving at the town yesterday to wait for me. It was always Lena, the one who never waited for life to arrange itself.

And then the valley opened up before us. Vast. Expansive. The wind blew constantly—neither cold nor hot, just wind, like the breath of something very large and very quiet. Wildflowers grew everywhere—white, yellow, pale purple, the colors autumn hadn’t yet taken away—rippling in waves with the wind like small ripples on green ground. The scent of flowers and fresh grass after the rain rose into the bright air. The sky was high and deeply blue, without a cloud in sight. In the distance, snow-capped peaks reflected the morning light like mirrors.

We stood at the edge of the valley. We said nothing. There was no need to say anything.

The space grew calm, filled only with the sound of the wind and the rustle of grass and flowers. We sat down among the blossoms. The wind blew through our hair. The sound of autumn insects was somewhere nearby. I closed my eyes. I didn’t think of the Duke. I didn’t think of the manor. I didn’t think of the question I had carried all the way from the city. I only listened to the wind, the flowers, and the breath of the valley.

After a long while, Lena turned to me. She asked softly—her voice as small as the wind, not to get an answer, but because the question needed to be asked:

“... Élia. Are you happy?”

Everything sank into silence, a perfect, absolute silence of the earth and sky, with only the wind passing through and the sound of petals gently trembling.

I opened my eyes. I looked at the valley before me. I looked at the flowers swaying. I looked at the wind passing through, invisible—seen only in the traces it left on the grass, on the flowers, on the hair of Lena sitting beside me. I looked at the sky. Then I turned to Lena, and smiled.

A very light, clear melody, like the light of dawn, rose again in my heart. The answer was not spoken. It drifted away in the wind, following the flowers, up into the high, blue, expansive sky.

After a long and profound silence, the question returned, as light as a breath, appearing in the air of its own accord:

... Are you happy?

The space sank completely into absolute silence.

[End]