He walked across the jungle and up to the mountains.

His face tensed as he went through foliage. The sound followed him. The knock. The stirring memories that had accompanied his whole life.

It had been there for as far as he remembered. When he played with his friends. At the party when he got his first kiss. At night, when he laid with his then bride. No matter what, a relentless partner. A shapeless ghost.

He had searched for an answer.

The old, wise men had told him to let go. To embrace the sound and live his life. But he did not, and wouldn’t ever. He was cursed with the need of knowledge, and it came with a price.

He travelled through the lands searching for the quietest places, but to no avail, the sound remained around. The man lived through deserts and hollow, forgotten lands, but the only constant remained by his side. One knock. And another. And another.

His body grew weary, and his mind foggy. He no longer looked at the people, retired now in himself. By the end, he traced his steps back. He was old now, but his body repeated the path he had once upon a time, and so he walked and found himself once again in the halls of the old wise men, but it was empty now.

He watched himself in a mirror and what little he could saw, scarred him.

The sound was still there.

It never left.

It was with him when darkness covered his eyes, and when he laid down to die, intensified. He died an empty man. After the last breath of his soul left his body, the sound stopped. And he understood.