He did not offer to teach me.
Not yet.
Instead, he closed the book in his hands—slowly, deliberately—as though marking a place rather than ending a chapter.
"I will remain in this region for a time," he said. "If the world continues to pull at you the way it has begun to, we will speak again."
With that, he turned away.
No instructions.
No assurance.
Just possibility, left standing in the open air.
As I watched him depart, I understood something fundamental had shifted. Until now, the world beyond the household had watched from a distance. Measured. Evaluated.
Now, it had stepped close enough to recognize me.
Not as a trainee.
Not as a curiosity.
But as someone who stood before a door that had not yet been named—
and had not yet decided whether to open it.