It's too late for regrets.
The old man rocked in his wooden chair, looking up at the rising sun. The chirps and calls of barn swallows filling his ears. His eyes strained to find its shape through the thick smoke enveloping the barren marsh. Beams of sunlight slowly begin to penetrate the white sky. In a fit of exhaustion, he closed his eyes and kicked back his head.
On the old man's lap was a young boy, sickly and small. His pale hands gripped the old man's worn shirt, the chair's creaking barely managing to cloak the boy's shallow breathing. The man furrowed his brows, wetting his cracked lips as he gently brushed the boy's brittle hair with metallic hands. He then looked behind at his home, tattered and dusty. It felt surreal to the man. Lifetimes of memories crammed into a small shack made of stone and scrap metal. Lightning in a bottle aside, perhaps there was meaning in its current state he was too senile to grasp.
As the light of dawn began to envelop the old man, he sighed, scratching away the flaky skin on his forehead.
"Say, boy, would you like to hear a story? It might be a while." The man said, massaging the boy's hands. The boy did not speak, only rubbing his nose further into the man's shirt as he coughed. His shivering body reaching a brief calm.
"There was once a farmer who lived in a beautiful meadow, where warm sunlight would wake the world with a smile. Where the fruit was fresh and succulent like no other, serving the bountiful animals throughout. He lived there with his big family, a simple and straightforward existence where the mind was clouded only with crop rotations and hunting seasons. His father had once asked him to help butcher the livestock, but the farmer refused. The animals were too loud, the flesh and guts too messy. So he would tend to the grain instead, carrying hay bales and wheat bags day in and day out."
The old man gripped his chair tighter, the wood rotting beneath.
"But one day, he came across a problem. There was this giant, cold bag of wheat he had to carry. But this wasn't an ordinary bag of wheat, no. This bag, he wanted to hide from his father. For if he knew of such a bag, surely he would take it for himself. So the farmer walked. Slow and steady. Ragged and dirty. Though rivers and the mountain peaks. The journey was most certainly not helped by his already bad mood. Nevertheless, he continued dragging the wheat along the meadow. Trying to find a place his father could not reach."
"This, the farmer would do until the sun dipped below the hills and darkness began to roll in. At the height of his troubles, he remembered the advice he got from a nearby farmer on grinding the wheat. Back then, the massive wheat wouldn't even fit in the bag. Yet still, the strain of the bag was far too great for him to carry on his own, even when ground to its current state."
"That's when the farmer noticed a shaking tree nearby, his eyes flickering between the other trees in the woodland area he had wandered to. Its branches swaying and creaking under the nighttime breeze. As he began to approach the tree for some food, two black crows descended from behind its branches."
The old man paused for a moment, tapping his feet on a wooden plank that the smoke had long since covered.
"The crows introduced themselves as brothers. The farmer's face was known to the crows, as they would often visit the farm and nibble upon the bugs and grain. So when the farmer spoke of his kerfuffle, the crows only felt it right to assist him. But even though they both knew how to hide the bag of wheat, the crows could not decide on who would help the man. Beginning to squawk and argue amongst each other in their haste. The farmer did not intervene, putting his weight on the bag and watching the crows with confused eyes as they locked feathers and bared their talons."
The old man coughed, the dancing haze that remained of his mind pouring out through cold and wet tears.
"Eventually, as the clear moon replaced the setting sun, one of the crows went limp, the other panting and bloody. Wanting to complete his task before his family worried, the young farmer quickly worked together with the remaining crow to hide the wheat. Covering it with wet soil and crisp grass. A plethora of mites and worms brushing up against the nearly torn bag's leather."
"Relieved, the farmer thanked the crow and returned to his home."
"Yet, despite hiding it from his father for a time. Back then, the farmer never realized that the wheat would one day rot."
As the sun finished its rise from the west and dark smoke rose above the trees, both a saint and a sinner would take their last breaths in each other's arms.
“Wait then, O Prophet, for the day when the sky will be veiled in haze, clearly visible, overwhelming the people. They will cry. This is a painful torment.”
—44:10–11
