The Threshold View
Standing at the edge of a broken wall, Isran is frozen by choice. He flees, knowing the danger of staying, yet uncertainty causes him pause. Behind him, the ruins of a city stretch into smoke and shadow. Ash drifts upon the air, stinging his eyes, clinging to his garments. Voices from within the wall rise in a chorus of confusion: some call out to him, others curse in pain, and still others laugh as if all is well. The city is burning, yet its citizens mock the thought of leaving. This is the great city, the pride of nations! “How can Babylon fall?” they cry.
Before him lies a narrow opening, a way half-lost in mist, fading into silence. Is this the way? he wonders. Is this the hope, the escape? It is no broad road, no paved certainty, but a hidden path barely worn by a traveler’s foot. He lifts his eyes, and there, upon the stone above the breach, welcome words are carved:
Threshold view: beauty before, ash behind.
He lingers there, caught between flame and freedom, between the voices of ruin and the hush of promise. His heart trembles, for thresholds are not places of rest. They are places of decision. To pass on, or to stay. Isran knows that if he goes forward, there shall be no return.
Behind him, ash. The collapse of false securities, the smoke of old illusions, the ruin of a city built on lies. Voices of the crowd ring in his mind, rising like chains about his will. His memories of friends, of family, of laughter in the streets — cords strong enough to bind his feet. He shakes his head to clear his sight. He knows to stay is bondage, death. There is nothing to lose in going forward. Yet he fears to go alone.
Before him, beauty. Not an instant paradise, but a land unseen, whispered of in old songs and an ancient text. A promised land. A place where deception has no dwelling, where shadow flees the light, where the clang of chains is never heard. The hope is sure, yet fragile is the traveler’s will to hold to it.
The old customs pursue him even to the threshold. Confusion rises like a tide — one whispering hope, another shouting despair, still another soothing with empty comfort. His sight falters, clouded by illusion, until even the compass of right and wrong seems turned upon its head. The struggle is not only with the fire behind, but within one’s own heart, where clarity must be won through trial.
He lifts his eyes once more to the path. Narrow, hidden, uncertain. Yet in that mist glimmers the promise: beauty before, ash behind. His journey begins, for he cannot linger forever at the gate.
And so it is with us. We too stand at such thresholds, called to reckon with ash and to hope for beauty. To turn back is to embrace ruin and decay; to step forward is to trust a promise. The way is not without cost, nor the choice without weight. But the threshold waits for none.
Behind is ash and burning flame.
Before is the hope of freedom from deception’s reign.
These are the tales of the threshold.
