Mount Olympus was loud.
Hera always knew this, but only now did she truly notice how much. Dionysus's exaggerated laughter, Apollo's endless stories, Athena's ironic remarks… It all sounded too loud. Too intrusive. As if every word had to prove its importance. As if sound disguised deeper things— insecurity, pride, vanity.
She didn't feel contempt. In truth, she felt nothing. But she noticed.
Since the servant arrived, silence had become a presence. Solid, discreet, constant. Hera didn't seek it—but it was there. And little by little, she began to hear different things:
* the wind through the columns.
* the servants' footsteps rushing here and there.
* the soft clink of dry leaves falling onto marble.
One afternoon, she passed Artemis and didn't correct her. The younger goddess had spoken out of turn, something that would normally irritate Hera. But she simply walked on. No reason. No resentment. It was as if some things had lost their weight—or perhaps she simply stopped carrying them.
---
In the smaller hall, where few ever ventured, Hera gazed at the old mirrors. Each reflected a different moment of Olympus— a gathering of gods, a wedding feast, a sunrise.
The servant stood close to the entrance, never looking directly at anything. Yet his presence was solid—like a pillar.
Before the mirror showing an ancient banquet, Hera murmured,
"We were all pretending to be happy here."
She didn't expect a reply—she had grown accustomed to his silence. And perhaps that was what surprised her most: she no longer found his silence strange. She had begun to like it.
"When you don't need to be heard, words change. They become more… truthful."
The servant remained motionless. The white flower tucked behind his ear was starting to dry. She already considered replacing it with a blue one.
---
Days later, Hera walked the hallways when she heard two lesser gods arguing. A petty squabble—jealousy, maybe. Normally, she would have intervened harshly, enforcing order as usual.
Instead, she simply paused and watched from afar.
After a while, the gods tired of arguing. One of them noticed Hera nearby and braced for reprimand. But she turned and walked away.
She was no longer interested in controlling what wouldn't change.
---
In the garden, Demeter commented,
"You're different these days."
"I'm older."
"We are eternal, Hera."
"Then I'm… quieter."
Demeter smiled, curious.
"Does it have something to do with that servant? The silent one?"
Hera turned to look at him. He sat by the fountain in complete stillness, eyes fixed on nothing.
"He says nothing. But perhaps that's the closest thing to peace I've ever had."
Demeter frowned.
"But you… you don't *feel* peace."
"No. But I perceive what changes when it comes closer."
---
Soon, the other goddesses began whispering among themselves:
"She doesn't yell anymore."
"She's more often alone."
"She speaks less, but seems to listen more."
"Is that servant some kind of magic?"
Aphrodite once tried to approach him with a curious smile. She walked around him, tried looking into his eyes. But nothing happened. No reaction. No trace of desire, enchantment, or interest.
"There's no love in him," she said, puzzled. "No revulsion either. He… is a nothing."
"Maybe that's why I'm drawn to him," Hera replied. "He doesn't want to be anything other than what he is."
---
In the hall of the gods, when the usual chaos began—laughter, jokes, disputes—Hera asked for silence.
For the first time in a long while, her voice was not angry.
She simply said,
"Let's do this in order."
And everyone obeyed.
Not out of fear—but surprise.
Zeus eyed her from across the table, suspicious.
"You've been… strangely calm."
"Or perhaps *everyone else* is oddly agitated."
Zeus glanced at the servant, who leaned against the far wall.
"Is it about him?"
"It's about me."
He scoffed.
"You've never been good at accepting calm."
"Maybe because I've never had it."
Zeus didn't reply—and Hera didn't expect him to.
---
That night, perched on the terrace, Hera watched the constellations. The servant stood nearby, motionless as always. The blue flower she had placed that morning still remained, untouched.
"You don't think. Yet you still make me think differently."
No reply.
"It's strange. Everyone around me always wanted to *change* me. Control me. Shape me. But you… by wanting nothing, became the only *real* change that stayed."
She didn't say this gently. Not lovingly. Just as a quiet statement.
"You are like a mirror that reflects nothing. Yet you make me see what's around me."
She didn't know if that was good or bad—but it didn't matter.
There were no feelings. Only presence. And, in the servant's case, **presence was all there was**.
---
The next morning, when he paused before her still wearing the dried blue flower, she removed it and tucked a yellow one in its place. And inadvertently, she smiled.
A small gesture. Weak. Almost imperceptible.
But *she* found it strange—
She stood silent for a few seconds, staring at the servant as if searching for something.
"It's not a happy smile. It's just… a muscle. Sometimes it moves on its own."
He made no reply.
But he didn't look away either.
And for Hera, **that continued to be enough**.