The afternoon sun filtered through the glass doors of the study, bathing the stacked books in amber. Professor Elías Soler, a man whose calm demeanor was dressed in a light grey jacket, stroked the back of his Sphinx cat, peach-colored and with an ancient gaze. Elías walked to the desk to prepare his things. He observed everything: the immutable bonsai and the wooden box filled with old photographs.

Miu, the cat, walked over the pile of books on the desk as if inspecting the evidence of an unlearned lesson.

Elías did not turn on the light. He knew that the day's lesson would be taught in the twilight.

—Today is the day, Miu —Elías whispered, opening a notebook—, when history stops.

The text for the class was about conflict, choice, and surrender. Elías remembered a childhood friend, a friend who was now gone, with whom he used to play with toy guns, choosing imaginary sides. They were just children, with no real enemies, just sides in a game.

Elías grasped the truth his soul had been holding:

The soldier's true battle is never external, on the battlefield, but internal, in the daily decision to let go of the fear of not belonging.

The child in that story was him, Elías, and all those who once believed there were sides that would justify the pain.

And the weapons? Elías looked at the box of photographs in the corner. The weapons were not the wooden toys, nor the gunpowder of distant fields. The weapons, he thought with a deep and poetic sadness, are those wounded feelings we choose to wield instead of heal. They are the fears that belonged to a party, to an ideology, repeated over and over in history books or in some cinema.

Elías left the notebook open, right on the page that read: December 11 - My Master Doorway.

That day, Elías released the scene, the witnessing energy of what had already ended, understanding that there is no glory when conquest is sought with arms.

He looked at the cat, who had now curled up on the book. He had learned that the present is the sacred tree, and with gratitude, Elías received the fruits of peace that had been waiting for him for so long. He sat in his chair and turned on the radio. The saxophone from The Year of the Cat filled the room.

The afternoon sun filtered through the glass doors of the study, bathing the stacked books in amber. Professor Elías Soler, a man whose calm demeanor was dressed in a light grey jacket, stroked the back of his Sphinx cat, peach-colored and with an ancient gaze. Elías walked to the desk to prepare his things. He observed everything: the immutable bonsai and the wooden box filled with old photographs.

Miu, the cat, walked over the pile of books on the desk as if inspecting the evidence of an unlearned lesson.

Elías did not turn on the light. He knew that the day's lesson would be taught in the twilight.

—Today is the day, Miu —Elías whispered, opening a notebook—, when history stops.

The text for the class was about conflict, choice, and surrender. Elías remembered a childhood friend, a friend who was now gone, with whom he used to play with toy guns, choosing imaginary sides. They were just children, with no real enemies, just sides in a game.

Elías grasped the truth his soul had been holding:

The soldier's true battle is never external, on the battlefield, but internal, in the daily decision to let go of the fear of not belonging.

The child in that story was him, Elías, and all those who once believed there were sides that would justify the pain.

And the weapons? Elías looked at the box of photographs in the corner. The weapons were not the wooden toys, nor the gunpowder of distant fields. The weapons, he thought with a deep and poetic sadness, are those wounded feelings we choose to wield instead of heal. They are the fears that belonged to a party, to an ideology, repeated over and over in history books or in some cinema.

Elías left the notebook open, right on the page that read: December 11 - My Master Doorway.

That day, Elías released the scene, the witnessing energy of what had already ended, understanding that there is no glory when conquest is sought with arms.

He looked at the cat, who had now curled up on the book. He had learned that the present is the sacred tree, and with gratitude, Elías received the fruits of peace that had been waiting for him for so long. He sat in his chair and turned on the radio. The saxophone from The Year of the Cat filled the room.