“I'm all ears,” thought the man who literally was. To call him a man was a stretch – in actual fact, he was a pair of human ears, detached from any head or body, levitating above the ground at roughly the right height to belong to a man of average size. Except, of course, there was no man, only the ears.
None of us understood quite how he came to be. We asked him many times but, having no head or mouth, he was unable to reply. He was a good listener, though. You could walk up to him and talk and talk for hours, and he wouldn't flee. He'd just float there and listen – both ears of him. Of course, he could float off at any time, and levitate above some other patch of ground, but once you'd started talking to him, unloading your problems in vivid detail, he'd just stay right there and listen to everything you had to say.
Perhaps it was out of politeness, the way he floated so still, both ears inclined slightly towards the speaker to better absorb their words. Perhaps it was embarrassment. Maybe, truly, he did wish to flee, but his hatred for the speaker was overpowered by his deepest wish to not make a scene. I imagine that as a child—or rather as a floating pair of child's ears—he was bullied by the other kids, and consequently desired nothing more than to fit in, unobtrusive, even at the expense of his own comfort.
One night, we saw someone from the town walk up to the ears and offer them a pair of earplugs. The person was wearing a cloak to disguise their identity, but appeared to be female, with an endearing, clumsy walk. We were unable to deduce the precise identity of this person, but narrowed it down to two or three local people, none of whom would admit whether it was or wasn't them.
Anyway, this person offered the earplugs as a gift. She held out her left hand, palm upwards, the small foam earplugs glistening in the moonlight. The ears floated, still, as if in thought. Then, after a moment, the right ear swept over the hand, knocking the earplugs to the ground.
We do not know what the mystery person was thinking, offering this gift. Perhaps she thought that after a lifetime of listening, the ears might like a break. A holiday. But she did not anticipate this response, which was so clearly – I am ears. I hear. My hearing is everything that I am. To remove this ability, even as a kind gesture, is an insult.
The cloaked person ran off into the night, sobbing quietly. She did not stop to pick up the discarded earplugs. We were curious to find out who she was – some to shame her, but some, myself included, to console her.
The ears levitated in the same spot. As usual, they said nothing.
From our hiding spot, we began to question whether this was a private moment, on which we should not have intruded. A strange sight. Coming to no conclusion, we headed to our separate homes to think over the events we'd witnessed.
The next day, a group of us headed out to speak to the ears. After that strange night, we found ourselves full of emotion, and desperate to verbally unload it in the only way we knew how. We could watch his responses for clues. What secrets might a twitch of the ear betray?
But arriving at the forest clearing where the ears usually floated, we found nothing. We searched the area, but there was no trace. Only the earplugs lay in the dirt, where they'd been abandoned the night before. He'd disappeared.
With no-one to listen to us—for how could we listen to each other?—we headed back home once more, to sit in silence.