In the past, he’d heard many stories – some of them real, like the ones his father told, and some of them not, like the ones his mother created. But they were never too difficult to understand, even when they were trying to teach him something, because the storyteller wasn’t trying very hard to hide the meaning behind his or her words anyway.
It’s quite ironic that the one he calls ‘teacher’ is more of a storyteller than his parents were, because he made it seem like he was teaching while hiding the lesson behind a locked door. It’s a riddle that he’s been told he’d been given the key to solve, but he doesn’t know what the key looks like in the first place and so ends up back to where he started: clueless, and he feels young all over again.
His storytelling-teacher is the only one he’s ever dared to ask for the answer directly, not because he doesn’t think he should try to figure it out on his own, but because he doesn’t want to miss out on what his soul tells him is important.
There may be many times when he feels incompetent and stupid, but it’s a small price to pay for an answer where all he has to do is sit by the storyteller’s feet and listen. It’s a small price, because when he can remember the answer, then he too can tell the same stories.