Elham had always felt small. Not just in body—though he was thin for his age—but in presence. In the village of Aram, a boy was measured by what he could do, what he could carry, what he could provide. Elham carried nothing. He did nothing. And in a world that valued action, that made him invisible.
He sat on the edge of a low stone wall, watching the market wake. Merchants shouted over the clatter of baskets. Children ran, laughing and shouting. Even the sun seemed to rise with purpose, highlighting the busy streets, the bustling square, the lives that had meaning. Elham had none of it.
A group of boys passed by, carrying bundles of firewood.
"Hey, Elham" one called, "Still sitting there?"
Elham forced a smile. "I'm just… thinking."
"Sure," another, Gideon, laughed. "About how to get out of work?"
He didn't answer. They moved on, leaving him with the emptiness he was used to.
At home, things were quieter. His mother, Shiloh, rested on a thin mat, pale and tired, a small crust of bread on a plate beside her. Elham swallowed the lump in his throat. He took it and set it beside her, telling himself he wasn't hungry. A lie, but one that felt easier than feeling sorry for himself.
He stepped outside again, wandering toward the temple at the center of the village. It wasn't the largest building, nor the most adorned, but it was the one place where words seemed to hold weight. Inside, elders debated over scrolls and scriptures. Their voices rose and fell, filled with authority, conviction, and the kind of certainty Elham didn't have.
He slipped into a shadowed corner, listening. He understood very little, but the sound of their discussion—the rhythm of it, the seriousness—was comforting. Here, he wasn't judged. Here, he could exist without failing anyone.
When the room emptied, Elham lingered. That's when he noticed the old man sitting silently near the back, hands folded over his knees, watching him.
"You're always here," the man said quietly, his voice calm but deep. "Even when no one else is."
Elham froze. "I… I like listening. I'm sorry if I'm in the way."
The man's eyes were sharp, piercing. "I am Johnathan. You must be Elham correct?"
"Yes."
John nodded. "Why do you come here every day?"
Elham shrugged. "I don't really… belong anywhere else."
John considered this. Then he leaned forward slightly. "You think you are nothing."
"I… I just don't… help anyone," Elham admitted. "I try, but I always get in the way."
John's expression softened. "Honesty is rare, even among the strong. That is good."
Elham frowned. "Good?"
"Because it means you are beginning to see yourself clearly. One day, clarity will matter more than strength or skill. One day, it will matter more than gold or even life itself."
Elham blinked. He wanted to ask what he meant, but Johnathan had already risen.
"Go home for now. Eat. Rest. And remember this feeling," Johnathan said. "A small warmth, a small hope—you felt it today. That is a seed. Keep it safe."
Elham watched him go, the old man's robes brushing the floor softly, disappearing into the corridor. Alone, he pressed a hand to his chest. The warmth was faint now, but it lingered, small, fragile, and promising.
He didn't notice Jahova in the square across the street, laughing and carrying baskets for others. He didn't notice the way people gravitated toward him, drawn to a presence Elham couldn't yet understand. Yet.
But he would notice. Soon.
Because the world had shadows that moved behind familiar faces. And sometimes, those shadows stirred before anyone realized the danger was there.