One We Don't Share

Zooey looked up, and grabbed Judas’ hand. “Enough crying about the past. We have an efficient amount of that to come,” he smiled. Juads helped him up, and soon, they came to a village.
“You are hungry,” an elderly man stated. “Come eat with us.” He brought them into his own home; it was made of mortar, and had a thatched roof. The walls looked as if they had once been a grayish hue, but years of sun and weather had turned it a blinding white color.
The man, they had come to learn, was a woodsmith and his name was Mulia. Mulia fed them numerous bowls of soup before asking about their past.
“We were… learning from monks in the mountains.” Judas spoke vaguely. Zooey echoed her. “Yes, learning.”
“Learning?” Mulia raised an eyebrow. “You are not from here.” He gestured at the foliage just outside the door.
“No. But that’s a completely different story. One we don’t share with others.” The corners of Zooey’s mouth turned down as he answered grimly. “One we don’t like to share with ourselves, either.”

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