Still No Name—But the Therapist’s Chair Was Ready
Some patients bring baggage. This one brought the universe.
Still No Name, but Walk-Ins Welcome
Dr. Wrye stepped into the waiting room, and was met by an individual whose kind of presence you notice without knowing why. She extended her hand, not quite for a handshake, more like a welcome.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Wrye. My office is just down the hall.”
The Architect rose without hurry and nodded once, polite but unreadable.
As they began walking, she added—gently, “And you are?”
“I’ve been known by so many names,” the Architect said, almost like an apology. "I don’t mean to be evasive and I know this breaks the rules of introductions. I know it may leave you puzzled. But it’s the only truth I can offer for now. Then, with a faint shrug, the answer came: “The last person just called me Quest.”
She paused at hearing the answer. It wasn’t the pause of confusion, but of someone who recognized the weight of what had just been said. She didn’t ask what kind of person gave that name. Or why it stuck. Instead, she simply turned toward the door, the silence between them now holding a shape of its own.
Dr. Wrye gently opened the office door, this gesture carrying with it an unspoken warmth that made it easy to step inside. She watched as the Architect carefully hung up the coat, noting how the motion carried a quiet thoughtfulness that seemed more about presence than necessity. She couldn’t help but notice the rest: the shirt, lightly rumpled like it had surrendered to the day, and the shoes—well-worn, familiar, clearly chosen for comfort over presentation.
There was something in the way the Architect took in the room—not rushed, not hesitant, just present. Stepping toward the chair with a slow, effortless folding into it, with a expression somewhere between dazed and done. Like someone who’d just come from a meeting that ran long, went nowhere, and still ended with everyone agreeing to schedule another one.
Fifty Minutes and a Beginning
Dr. Wrye waited a while before speaking, not to break the silence, but to meet it.
“Some people come in ready to talk. Others take a little longer. You look like someone who’s been carrying a lot for a long while, so take the time you need.”
The Architect didn’t respond right away, but a thought stirred and flickered across the face—a half-smile, barely there. Funny thing to offer someone who has all the time there is. Fifty minutes. Seems short for the kind of weight people bring in. But then again maybe it’s enough to start lifting just a corner.
Then slowly without any lightning issuing forth, without any proclamations, and with a gravity not solemn but quiet, enduring and steady, the Architect spoke.
Atlas Shrugs, the Architect Stays
”I’m not Atlas. Everyone thinks I can carry the world on my shoulders. I don’t carry the world on my shoulders but I do carry eight billion hearts in mine, eight billion broken hearts.”
Dr. Wrye didn’t respond right away. She let the words settle—breathe, unchallenged and undismissed. “You didn’t promise to carry the world,” she said gently.
“Just… to hold what breaks in it.” She was quiet for a moment then added, “That’s so much heavier, isn’t it.”
The Architect responded, “ Lately I’ve been walking the earth unnamed. Sitting in waiting rooms. Riding buses. Holding splintered children in dreams.I didn’t come here to be fixed. I came here to ache out loud. Because peace that never breaks is just distance. And I never wanted distance. I wanted closeness. Even if it hurt. Even if it meant I’d feel everything you feel—and be mistaken for a madman. So here I am. Not high. Not far. Just trying to remember how to speak without setting the whole world on fire.
No Shoulders, Just a Heart
“It’s not that I can’t hold eight billion hearts within mine. Of course I can. But have you ever tried holding eight billion heartbreaks at once?” I’m not discouraged or exhausted and I’m not even weary for me. I’m weary for you all.”
She didn’t reach for a pen. There was nothing to record—only something to hold.
She wasn’t sure what she was hearing. But she knew it was asking something of her.
“Eight billion broken hearts,” she repeated quietly, not as a question, but as a kind of reckoning. “Not tired for yourself,” she said gently. “But for everyone else.”
“That’s a weight I can’t pretend to understand.”
She paused—just enough to make room for the mystery and wondering to herself,
I don’t know what I’m sitting across from—
a presence, a question, the Marrow of the Universe—
But I do know this, I’m not here to file this under symptoms.
Cold Water, Quiet Fire
“I once saw something” the Architect said. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Dr. Wrye asked, “Something recent?”
“No. Old. But I saw it again as if it were happening now.”
She waited.
“There was this little girl,” he continued. “Maybe four. She couldn’t yet say her “r’s.” She pulled a chair up to the kitchen sink, proud as anything, and began washing dishes. Cold water. Didn’t even notice—it was just her moment and nothing topped that feeling—hands in the water, being helpful, being kind. Being four, and being proud.
What happened?” asked Dr. Wrye.
“Her father stepped up beside her, felt the water and asked how she could wash the dishes in cold water. It wasn’t a curious question. more like a subtle criticism.
Dr. Wrye wanted to know how it landed on her.
“Hard. Her spark dimmed and with it the warmth of her pride faded, like being washed down the drain as a useless or misunderstood act of kindness.
Dr. Wrye asked, “So what did she do?”
The Architect’s voice softened. “She rallied. Lifted her chin. Said with a tiny smile, ‘It’s a twick!’ As if she’d just revealed a secret of the universe. Clever, defiant, still trying to shine.”
“Then why does this unsettle you?” she asked.
The Moment Joy Learns to Hide
“Because she had to be clever. That’s what got me. She couldn’t just be—she had to adapt. Shield herself.”
“You’re not bothered by the cleverness itself.”
“No. I admire it. I admire her. But she deserved to stay lit without scrambling for cover.”
“And this weighs on you?” she asked.
He nodded again, eyes far away now. “Of course because I made joy abundant, not fragile. And I made cleverness as a gift, not a survival skill. But now… it’s both. And sometimes, it becomes the only thing they have left.”
She let his words settle, then asked, “What would you have said to her, had you been the one who stepped in?”
He blinked. Thought. Swallowed.
“I don’t step in—not like that. But I do stay near. And to this day, I still whisper where she might hear it: You didn’t do it wrong. Let me warm the water. You deserve to shine in comfort.”
What Came After the Memory
The story hung in the room for a while. Not out of hesitation—just the kind of pause that happens when something true has been spoken, and no one’s in a rush to move past it.
After a moment, Dr. Wrye asked softly,
You mentioned once that the bartender called you Quest. I’m just wondering…is there a name you’d prefer I call you?”
The response came without coyness or deflection, just an honest comfort.
“I have many names.” There was a pause and then continuing,
“Quest. Creator. Truth. Spirit. I Am. Higher Power. Allah. Universe. Wisdom. Krishna. God. All Knowing. Love.”
“Names whispered in grief, shouted in awe, stitched into prayers, carved into stone. Some are ancient. Some recent, some mispronounced, misunderstood but all beloved and none of them wrong. None of them quite enough but all of them mine. Each one holds something true. But none hold all of it.”
Dr. Wrye didn’t respond. No nod. No theology. No attempt to define what sat across from her.
And something in the room softened—not resolved, but recognized.
Some Patients Bring Baggage, This One Brought the Universe
The session hadn’t ended, not really. But the clock had. Fifty minutes—just enough time to start lifting a corner.
“So it seems I’ve got other places to be,” came the voice, light now, almost amused.
“And apparently, a bar tab to settle.There’s still some unfinished business,” the voice added, pausing at the door. “At the bar. And in the world.”
“But I’ll be back. I’m persistent that way.” And as the door closed behind him there was a feeling of being impossibly old and yet unburdened.
Dr. Wrye stayed in her chair, letting the room settle around her.
She looked at the empty seat across from her and saying softly to herself,
“Well, if that wasn’t God, then God should definitely consider hiring Quest as a stand-in.”
(Just a thought before I go: whether divine or simply human, the arrival was indeed enough to stir the quiet heart of the room.)
With tenderness,
Jocelyn
P.S.
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