The Sin of Seneca

Today, unlike any other, I sat on my porch in Rome, immersed in the quiet of contemplation, pondering the shape of things to come. Amidst this silence, my eye caught sight of something peculiar—an unfamiliar piece of white parchment, inked in a script foreign to my time. At first, I mistook it for nothing more than an errant slip, until the date struck me: 2024. And the name signed below—Mei.

This letter seemed to have slipped beyond the ordinary confines of time, written not on the materials we know but on a paper different in hue and feel, carrying whispers from an age I’d not seen. It eluded my understanding at first glance, but as I studied it again and again, meaning unfurled slowly, as if revealing itself at will. Somehow, this missive, borne of a distant era, had reached my hand, as if entrusted to me alone. Then, with the swift grace of a feather upon the breeze, another letter followed—a note from one named Nim.

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In that moment, I understood: I was the bridge, the conduit between their time and mine, between past and future. For the remainder of the day, I awaited more letters, but none came. It is difficult, almost uncomfortable, to accept that which lies beyond the bounds of the familiar, yet patience may lead us to acceptance, as a river carves its way through stone.

I have counseled emperors, I have written faithfully to Lucilius, offering guidance when he sought it. And now, I wonder—what burdens do these distant souls bear? What do they struggle against, and to what ends do they toil? If I were to reach out to Mei and Nim, to impart some counsel, would my words find them? Would they understand? And how far, I wonder, do they stand from truth—and from each other?

I will wait. Perhaps another letter will come. And if their stakes are not so insurmountable, perhaps my counsel may yet serve them.