They knew her as the traveler without a compass, though true north hid itself, stubborn, beneath her skin. She never carried luggage, only a notebook with frayed covers where she jotted down others' silences, because, she said, silence is the most intimate form of music. No one knew when she began traveling through villages tucked between mountains, forgotten train stations, ports where the water seemed to hold its breath.

In that notebook, she catalogued an inaudible cartography. Of the village beside the desert she wrote: "Here, the wind embraces strangers so they won't flee from themselves." Of the ruined lighthouse she noted: "The light fails, but the memory of having illuminated persists."

One dawn she arrived at a valley where the sky seemed to lean over the earth. There, the inhabitants entrusted their sorrows to a muddy river that, according to legend, carried the memory of everything forgotten. The traveler untied her boots, planted herself on the shore, and listened to the water's murmur like one who stalks an omen. Then she took up her pen, but the ink remained suspended at the tip—she understood that such silence would not fit in her book. And for the first time, she feared that a story might claim her entirely.

That night, under drowsy constellations, she opened the notebook and tore out each page without grief or nostalgia. The sheets floated, settled upon the river, and upon contact, dissolved like flakes of salt. When dawn came, the traveler was gone; the notebook too. Only a trace of dissolved paper remained, spinning persistently in the current. Anyone passing by would have sworn they heard a murmur that was neither water nor wind, but the imagined voice of all redeemed silences, narrating themselves beyond any written frontier.