“Omne Uno Implicitur, Quod Non Attingitur Ipsum.”

At the crossroads, a figure in full plate waits, visor sealed, as though the world had grown a second skin of iron only to contemplate itself.

“Hi.” A gauntlet lifts; a lazy salute.

“Don’t you ever tire, endlessly sweating in that?” Steam leaks from the breath-slot and curls away.

“No.” The voice tastes like scorching steel. The great helm swivels, and the visor catches my reflection. “This armor outgrew the skin. I am the armor.” The breastplate thrums on the last syllable, low C.

“And if you could be more?” “Less.”

“Less?” The helm dips. “Less of trying to be what the road keeps asking.”

“You’ve seen the lost ones. Which way do they choose?” “There’s only one way, really.” A gauntlet taps the empty air; the echo travels nowhere.

“Guess which.” The helm tilts and a shrug follows; the cuirass tolls once, a dull church-bell note.

“You think paths are linear? What if they’re not?” “Then I’m already on the right path.” Sunset slides off the polished steel like water.

“Why stay?” “To find out.”

“Find out what?” “Where the right path leads.” A breeze lifts and carries the smell of dry grass.

“You’re just sitting there, rusting.” “Rust is autumn for metal. We all move through time whether we walk or sit.”

“You’re going nowhere.” “Anywhere is nigh. I’ll wait.”

“You don’t make sense.” My footsteps scuff, restless. “Maybe. Riddles are cheaper. You’re the scar of a feather in this story, not I.”

The sky bruises to deep indigo. Somewhere a raven laughs once. I exhale; the sound is small, papery.

As I walk away, a song drifts after me like a loose thread of shadow. I look back; from the armor comes a low singing, the hum folded inside it, the sound of something keeping its own company until the world decides to turn again.