CHAPTER 2 Those Who Climbed Without Speaking

People arrived at the tower at different hours.

Some came early, when the valley was bright and expansive. Others climbed at dusk, when distance softened and detail faded. No one arrived in haste.

Daniel noticed that immediately.

A man climbed just after sunrise and leaned against the railing for a long time. He removed his gloves, folded them carefully, and held them in his hands.

“Still no signals?” he asked.

“None,” Daniel replied.

The man nodded, satisfied, and left.

Another visitor arrived in the afternoon carrying a small package. She set it on the platform, stared at it for several minutes, then picked it up again and carried it back down.

The flags did not move.

Daniel began to recognize the pattern.

People came not to announce something—

but to confirm they no longer needed to.

That evening, the ledger gained a new line.

Daniel had not written it.

Silence confirmed.

As the sun lowered, Daniel stood near the flagpole and watched the valley darken into layers of shadow and light. Roads disappeared first. Fields followed. Only the town lights remained, scattered and steady.

The tower held its position without effort.

Daniel realized then that the signal tower was no longer a tool.

It was a threshold.

A place where words were weighed—and often left behind.

And the signal that mattered most was the one never sent.