Tales from the Universe
Moral Dilemma: When striving for excellence genuinely makes people stronger, how do you know when encouragement has become coercion—and who gets to decide when someone has done enough?
The children of Veylan wore medals.
All of them.
Gold for mathematics.
Silver for running.
Bronze for music.
Green ribbon for gardening.
Blue ribbon for public speaking.
White ribbon for cleanliness.
There were medals for things Nara had never considered competitive.
When she first arrived, she saw a boy wearing a small copper disk.
“What is that one?”
“Breakfast.”
Nara stared.
“You won breakfast?”
The boy nodded proudly.
“Fastest clean plate under twelve.”
Nara looked at her mother.
Her mother whispered:
“Don’t start.”
They had moved to Veylan because of the schools.
Everyone said they were extraordinary.
They were.
Children learned languages.
Music.
Mathematics.
Carpentry.
Agriculture.
Swimming.
First aid.
Debate.
By fourteen, most students could do things adults elsewhere never learned.
Nara loved it.
At first.
Her first medal came after three weeks.
Third place in a footrace.
She ran home wearing the bronze disk.
Her father lifted her into the air.
“Look at you!”
Nara slept with the medal beside her bed.
The next month she earned silver.
Then gold.
Winning felt wonderful.
Not merely because of the medal.
People noticed.
Teachers smiled.
Her name appeared on the board.
Other students congratulated her.
Nara began training before school.
Veylan had a saying.
It appeared everywhere.
BETTER THAN YESTERDAY.
Nara liked that too.
There was always something to improve.
Run faster.
Read more.
Hold your breath longer.
Solve harder problems.
Practice another hour.
Better than yesterday.
Then Nara became friends with Evin.
Evin had no medals.
This was unusual enough that Nara initially assumed he was new.
“How long have you been here?”
“My whole life.”
She looked at his empty uniform.
“Where are your medals?”
“I don’t have any.”
“None?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Evin shrugged.
“I don’t like competitions.”
Nara laughed.
He didn’t.
“How can you not like competing?”
“I like drawing.”
“There are drawing medals.”
“I know.”
“So enter.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Then I start thinking about whether my drawing is better than someone else’s drawing.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to think about that.”
Nara stared at him.
“What do you think about?”
“The drawing.”
This seemed suspiciously unserious.
Evin was excellent.
That irritated her.
He drew buildings.
Animals.
People.
Once he drew Nara tying her shoe.
It was so accurate she recognized the expression she made while concentrating.
“You could win.”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Evin continued drawing.
“I already have the picture.”
Teachers noticed him too.
His art instructor encouraged him to enter the seasonal exhibition.
Evin refused.
The instructor encouraged harder.
Evin refused again.
Then his parents were called.
Then the headmaster.
Nara found him afterward sitting behind the gymnasium.
“What happened?”
“They want me to compete.”
“Just do it.”
“No.”
“You’d win.”
“I know.”
Nara became frustrated.
“Then what’s the problem?”
Evin looked at her.
“Why does something I love have to become something I can win?”
Nara had no answer.
The school introduced participation scores.
Students were expected to enter at least four competitions each term.
Not necessarily win.
Just participate.
The headmaster explained:
“Competition builds character.”
Evin raised his hand.
“What kind?”
The room laughed.
The headmaster did not.
“Discipline. Resilience. Ambition.”
“What if I already have those?”
“Then competition will strengthen them.”
“What if I don’t want them strengthened?”
The room became very quiet.
Nara admired him for approximately three seconds.
Then felt embarrassed on his behalf.
Evin’s parents made him enter.
He submitted a drawing.
It won gold.
Everyone celebrated.
Evin looked miserable.
Nara found him holding the medal.
“You won.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Now they think they were right.”
Nara understood that.
A little.
By fifteen, Nara had thirty-seven medals.
She kept them on the wall.
Her running had become exceptional.
She held the school record.
Then another girl broke it.
By less than a second.
Nara congratulated her.
Then went behind the equipment shed and vomited.
She began training twice a day.
Then three times.
Her knee started hurting.
The coach said:
“Listen to your body.”
Then added:
“Championships are in six weeks.”
Nara heard the second sentence louder.
Evin noticed her limp.
“Stop running.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Championship.”
“So?”
Nara stared at him.
“So?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Correct.”
“If I stop now, I lose everything I’ve trained for.”
“You already trained.”
“What?”
“That happened.”
Evin pointed at her leg.
“This is happening now.”
Nara ran the championship.
She won.
She also tore something in her knee.
The physician said she might never compete again.
Nara cried for three days.
Not because of the pain.
Because she didn’t know who she was.
People visited.
They brought flowers.
Medals.
Encouragement.
“Come back stronger.”
“Your greatest victory is ahead.”
“Champions don’t quit.”
Every kindness somehow contained another assignment.
Nara began hating visitors.
Then Evin arrived.
He brought pencils.
“What are these?”
“Pencils.”
“I can see that.”
“You’ve spent six years telling me to compete.”
Nara laughed.
“That seems cruel.”
“Yes.”
He put paper on the bed.
“Draw something.”
“I can’t draw.”
“Excellent.”
Nara drew badly.
Extremely badly.
Her first horse looked like a table experiencing distress.
Evin kept it.
Her second was worse.
For months, Nara drew.
Nobody scored it.
Nobody ranked it.
Nobody cared whether she improved.
Naturally, she improved.
That amused her.
Her knee healed enough to run again.
Not competitively.
At first this felt unbearable.
Then one morning she ran alone beyond the town.
No clock.
No coach.
No finish line.
She stopped beside a lake.
She realized she had no idea how fast she’d gone.
She laughed.
Years later, Nara became a teacher in Veylan.
The medals remained.
She did not remove them.
Competition had given her things she valued.
Discipline.
Courage.
The experience of discovering what her body could do.
She refused to pretend otherwise.
But participation stopped being mandatory.
This caused enormous controversy.
“You’re lowering standards,” one parent said.
“No.”
“You’re allowing children to opt out.”
“Yes.”
“Then they won’t push themselves.”
“Some won’t.”
The parent stared.
“And you’re comfortable with that?”
Nara thought.
“Sometimes.”
“That’s irresponsible.”
“Perhaps.”
The parent leaned forward.
“What if a child has extraordinary talent and wastes it?”
Nara looked toward the art room.
An old drawing hung on the wall.
A girl tying her shoe.
Evin had become an illustrator.
Still refused competitions.
Still excellent.
“Then it is their talent to waste.”
The parent looked horrified.
Nara smiled.
“Or use.”
Veylan kept its motto.
BETTER THAN YESTERDAY.
Nara added something beneath it in her classroom.
IF YOU WANT TO BE.
The headmaster made her remove it.
She put it back.
He removed it again.
She painted it directly onto the wall.
That ended the disagreement.
One afternoon, a student approached her carrying a silver medal.
“Teacher?”
“Yes?”
“I came second.”
“Congratulations.”
The child looked disappointed.
“I wanted first.”
“That’s allowed.”
“Should I train harder?”
Nara looked at him.
“Do you want to?”
“I want to win.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The boy frowned.
Nara waited.
Eventually he said:
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
She pointed toward the medal.
“You already know how to ask whether you can do better.”
Then she touched his chest lightly.
“Learn to ask whether better is still where you want to go.”
The boy looked at his medal.
Outside, children were racing across the field.
Some were keeping score.
Some weren’t.
Both groups were running.
Nara thought that was enough.