Started by Chris Morales23 · · 👁 7 views · 22 replies
Charles Howard said:A single falling tree makes more noise than an entire forest growing. There's an old proverb that says that, and honestly, it hits home quite often.
Chris Morales23 said:This is a story about a man I would call the Tracker.
The Tracker is someone who searches, someone who seeks, yet he isn't necessarily driven by the need to find what he is looking for. In fact, he doesn't even have to know what his quarry might be. He is simply a man whose very existence is defined by the act of seeking.
So, one day, the Tracker felt an overwhelming urge to make his way toward the city of Kamir. Having learned to pay serious attention to those sudden, deep impulses that surge from unknown places within him, he left everything behind and set out on the road.
After trekking for two days along dusty, sun-baked paths, he finally caught a glimpse of the skyline of Kamir in the distance. Just before reaching the city gates, his eyes were drawn to a small hill to the right of the path, lush with strange greenery and a profusion of various spring wildflowers. The entire hill was enclosed by a polished fence, and a set of bronze gates beckoned him to step inside.
Suddenly, he felt as though he had completely forgotten all about the city; he felt a pull to linger right there. The Tracker passed through the bronze gates and began to wander softly among white stones scattered seemingly at random across the ground.
He let his gaze flutter like a butterfly over every single detail of this colorful paradise. Perhaps it was because he possessed the eyes of a seeker, but he managed to spot an inscription on one particular white stone:
Abdul Tareg, lived 8 years, 6 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days.
A wave of unease washed over him when he realized that this wasn't just a stone, but a headstone. He felt a heavy pang of sorrow thinking that such a small child had been laid to rest here. Looking around, he noticed that another inscription was carved into a neighboring stone. He stepped closer to read it:
Jamir Khalib, lived 5 years, 8 months, and 3 weeks.
At that moment, the Tracker felt deeply unsettled. This beautiful place was actually a cemetery, and every stone was a grave. One by one, he began to read the markers. Each one bore the same pattern: a name and a lifespan. A sense of horror gripped him when he discovered that the oldest child buried here had barely reached eleven years of age. Overwhelmed by an immense grief, he sank onto the grass and wept.
An elderly cemetery caretaker, who happened to be passing by, saw the stranger and approached him. After watching him weep for a moment, the old man asked if he was mourning someone close to him.
"No, I am not weeping for anyone I know," the Tracker replied. "What is happening with this city? What kind of nightmare is this? Why are there so many dead children buried in this place? What terrible curse has fallen upon these people to force them to build a children's cemetery?!"
The old man answered him:
"Calm yourself; there is no curse. It is simply that we have an ancient custom here. Let me explain: when a child turns fifteen, their parents gift them a tiny little notebook, much like the one I wear around my neck. Whenever something brings them great Joy, they are meant to open that notebook and write it down: on the left, the thing that brought them happiness, and on the right, how long that Joy lasted."
Meeting a girl and falling in love: how long did that intense passion and Joy last? A week? Two? Three and a half?… You write it down.
…
The thrill of a first kiss? How long did it last? A minute and a half, the length of the kiss itself? Two days? A week?…
The pregnancy and birth of a first child?
A friend's wedding?
A dreamlike journey?
A reunion with a brother returning from a distant land?
How long did the Joy of all these events last? Hours? Days?… That is how we record every moment of our Joy in our little notebooks… Every single moment.
When someone passes away, the custom is to open their notebook and total up all the time spent in their life's Joy, then carve that sum upon their grave. Because we believe that is the only time truly lived.
