“Our mother is alive.” The Juggler wanders deeper into the trees, his lesson trailing him like a word-bubble in a comic strip. I follow so as not to not miss a beat, but he moves faster. Behind him, the dark closes in and I am forced to use my senses.

Silence. Not even his musical phrasing can be heard. I try to listen closer, but he’s no longer talking.

“Listen to the still silence of the night,” a voice says in the quiet of my mind. And so, I listen. At first, I hear nothing. The darkness closes in … nothing. Nothing except the quickening of my breathing.

Then there’s a rustle. A breeze through the leaves. A sigh.

I’m still not sure where my teacher went, so I stand near the place where I last saw him. My hand rests on the rough bark of a tree and I…