The Mirror in the Desert

A traveler stumbled through an endless desert, parched and exhausted, when they encountered a peculiar figure sitting cross-legged in the sand.

"You look terrible," the figure said.

"I know," the traveler replied, collapsing nearby. "My self keeps messing everything up."

"Your self?"

"Yes, you know—that bumbling idiot who follows me everywhere. Always making mistakes, always falling short. Can't stand them, honestly."

The figure tilted their head. "Do they have a name?"

The traveler paused, confused. "Well... I suppose it's me. But not really me me. Just the disappointing version."

"Ah," said the figure. "And where is this self now?"

"Right here, unfortunately." The traveler gestured vaguely at their own chest. "Stuck with them. No escape."

The figure stood and walked in a slow circle around the traveler. "Curious. So you're carrying someone you despise, who happens to be you, but isn't you, through a desert?"

"When you put it that way, it sounds absurd."

"Does it?" The figure knelt down and traced a line in the sand between where they sat and where the traveler slumped. "What if I told you there's no line? No carrying, no following. Just... being."

The traveler squinted at the mark in the sand. "Do I have a self? Oh... yeah, I guess I do."

"And?"

A long silence. Then, quietly: "Maybe they're tired too."

The figure smiled and stood. "Water is kindest when it flows in all directions—even back toward its source."

When the traveler looked up, the figure was gone. But the canteen at their feet, which had been empty for miles, was somehow full.