He then reached into a small drawer and pulled out a simple, unadorned copper compass. He placed it on the counter. "The silver one is for those who want to look rich. This one is for those who actually need to find their way. Keep your coins. Use them to get where you're going."
The traveler realized then that being "like a wall" wasn't about being heartless—it was about being solid enough to hold a foundation for others.
"Are you even listening?" the traveler finally snapped, frustrated by the silence. "You're like a wall! No heart, no movement!"
Through it all, Selim sat He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He didn't even acknowledge the young man's increasingly desperate theater. His face was a mask of weathered granite, cold and unmoving.
Selim finally looked up, his eyes sharp but calm. "A wall does not move because it has a job to do," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "It protects what is inside from the storm. If I moved for every story, I would have nothing left to protect."
In the heart of the bustling Grand Bazaar, there lived an old merchant named Selim. To the other shopkeepers, he was known as Duvar Selim —Wall Selim. He didn't shout for customers like the spice sellers, nor did he haggle with the frantic energy of the carpet weavers. He simply sat on his wooden stool, his back as straight as the ancient stone pillars of the city.
