The Taste of Sugar and Destiny
Morning always came softly there.Mist curled over the fields, wrapping the green in a thin silver veil. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster called, and the sound of temple bells drifted through the air — low, calm, and comforting.
The air smelled of wet earth, smoke, and flowers — the kind of scent that told you life here was simple but full.
Canals ran through the village like veins of glass, carrying reflections of the sky and the soft shapes of banana leaves leaning over the water.
The flow was gentle, never rushed, and tiny ripples spread wherever a fish broke the surface.
Sometimes children would run along the muddy banks, their laughter ringing like music that never really left the air.
The fields were endless shades of green — bright near the sun, deep and dark where shadows from the trees fell.
You could always hear the wind moving through them, a quiet whisper that sounded like it carried stories from far away.
Farmers bent low between the rows, their rhythm slow, steady, almost peaceful, as if time here was measured not in minutes, but in heartbeats.
Everywhere you looked, something bloomed.Small gardens outside each house spilled over with flowers — hibiscus, jasmine, marigold — their colors soft under the pale morning light.
A few butterflies danced lazily from one to another. Even the walls of the houses seemed to smile — faded paint, old tiles, and bright curtains swaying with the breeze.
As the sun rose higher, the village woke fully.
You could hear the creak of bicycles on the road, the chatter of shopkeepers arranging fruits, and the faint rhythm of a radio playing an old song.
Everyone who passed would smile or wave — not because they knew each other, but because that was just how the place was. Here, kindness wasn't taught; it was simply lived.
The village air was thick with the scent of jasmine, fried dough, and loud, chaotic festivity-the universal signature of a summer wedding .
six year old Ji-Ho squeezed his fathers hand, his head barely reaching the seam of the man's ceremonial white shirt.
Ji-Ho didn't care about the music or the laughter; he cared about the laddu his father had promised him.
His father, a stern but kind man, ushered them into the main courtyard where a great canopy had been erected.
"Stay close, Ji-Ho. Don't run off", his father warned, then immediately turned to greet a distant uncle.
Ji-Ho used his moment of freedom. He slipped past the adults, his eyes scanning for the sweet table.
The canopy offered little shade, and the sunlight was a fierce, golden weight on his head.
He finally spotted the table near the entrance.it was a wonderland of colors, piled high with yellow and orange sweets.
He reached out for a glistening, honey-soaked treat, his small fingers barely touching the plate and then a pair of small, quick hands, even smaller than his own, snatched the same piece of laddu.
Ji-Ho looked up, annoyed.
Standing opposite him was a girl, may be four years old, with huge, bright eyes and a cloud of dark, unruly hair.
She was wearing a tiny, stiffly embroidered dress and had a smudge of dirt on her neck.
She didn't look guilty.
She just looked at the sweet in her hand, then looked back at Ji-Ho, her expression utterly serious.
Ji-Ho, emboldened by hunger and indignation, frowned. "That was mine," he whispered fiercely.
The girl didn't speak. She slowly lifted the piece of laddu toward her mouth, then paused again, her eyes fixed on his.
it wasn't a mean look; it was a curious, almost challenging gaze, like an animal testing its boundaries.
just as she was about to take a bite, a man's hearty laugh boomed from behind her.
"Ah, there you are, my little trouble-maker! stealing the best sweet, are we?"
The girls father, a tall, gentle-looking man, stooped down. he had the same warm eyes as his daughter.
he looked at Ji-Ho, then chuckled.
"My apologies, young man. She has quite the appetite for sweets and competition, it seems."
The girl's father scooped her up into his arms, but as he did, the girl shifted the laddu in her hand, holding it out to Ji-Ho.
it was a sudden, silent peace offering.
Ji-Ho was too stunned to move. He just stared at the sweet, then at her face. For that single moment, with the wedding music roaring around them and the scent of sugar on the air, the world stopped.
He saw genuine, innocent kindness in her eyes, a generosity that melted away his anger.
Before he could take it, her father turned away, calling out a cheerful greeting to an old friend. The girl's face disappeared over her father's shoulder, and the laddu went with her.
Ji-Ho stood there, empty handed, watching the spot where she had been. He hadn't gotten the sweet, but something much stranger had happened.
For the first time in his life, six-year-old Ji-Ho felt a quiet, powerful tug in his chest. it wasn't about the food, or the village, or the wedding.
it was about those bright, challenging eyes and the shared, silent moment of an almost-gift.
He didn't know her name, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would always remember the girl who stole his laddu.