Somewhere high in the mountains, there is a town few have ever seen. No more than a hundred souls live there, their homes scattered between fog and pine. On nights like this, the clouds sink low and the rain speaks softly against the rooftops. Inside a small wooden room, a fire burns with a patient glow. Shadows dance along the walls, and the scent of wet earth drifts in through a half-open window.
Five chairs are set around the hearth. They look worn but comfortable, shaped by years of conversation and silence. Four are occupied.
Plotinus of Egypt sits closest to the fire. His face is calm, his eyes heavy with centuries of thought. Do not let the name deceive you. He was a Roman by citizenship, Egyptian by birth, and perhaps something else entirely by spirit. His name, I believe, was given to him. It feels less like a label and more like a reminder.
Across from him sits Nietzsche, his gaze fixed on the flames. He carries the air of a man both alive and gone. The name suits him perfectly. He is the embodiment of “I am,” yet his eyes suggest he has already left the world he once defined.
Osho Rajneesh sits quietly, his presence unforced. He watches without judgment. Born Rajneesh, called Raj once, he seems now beyond the need for names.
And then there is me, Shimul.
The fifth chair remains empty.
“Who should we invite?” I ask, looking at the vacant seat. “Who deserves to sit here and speak with us tonight?”
Nietzsche lifts his eyes. “Invite for what?”
“Perhaps a conversation,” Plotinus says, his voice gentle. “Philosophy, maybe. It is the only thing that binds us.”
Nietzsche’s lips curl into a faint smile. “I am not a philosopher.”
Plotinus leans forward slightly. “I think you are.”
Nietzsche looks at him, and for a moment the fire reflects in both their eyes. “You think too much,” he says. “Thinking is harmless, but speaking it aloud… that invites suffering. Have you ever thought of that?”
Plotinus’s smile does not fade. “And yet, is it not the duty of a teacher to share what he knows, even if it leads to suffering?”
Nietzsche says nothing. The room holds its breath. The fire snaps, sending a spark into the air that dies before touching the ground.
Osho finally speaks. His voice feels like a whisper wrapped in calm. “Let us not argue with silence,” he says. “Let us have some coffee instead. The night is long.”
“I will make us a good one,” I reply.
Outside, the rain continues to fall. Inside, four men and an empty chair wait for someone who may never arrive.