The Generous King

In the kingdom of Nahazar, there lived a king unlike any other.

He was called King Rayan the Generous — not because of titles, but because of the way people whispered his name with gratitude. He had no hunger for gold, no thirst for war. He believed true power came from kindness.

And so, he gave.

He gave to the poor until the streets no longer knew hunger.
He gave to the farmers when the rains were late and the crops failed.
He gave to the widows, the orphans, the broken — and none left his court empty-handed.

His palace gates were never closed.
His treasury, always open.

The people called him a king touched by heaven.

But not everyone in the kingdom felt so blessed.


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The Forgotten Face in the Palace

In a room just behind the throne, a young boy used to wait. His name was Zayan — the king’s only son.

While his father ruled a kingdom, Zayan ruled nothing but silence.

His mother had died when he was five. His father, always surrounded by ministers and the needs of the nation, had forgotten the boy who used to wait outside his chamber door — just to walk beside him.

Every evening, Zayan would peek through the carved doors of the court, hoping his father would look up.

He rarely did.


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“The People Need Me”

When Zayan turned ten, he built a wooden horse by himself.
He ran into the court to show his father.

But the king was kneeling before a crying widow, handing her his own gold ring.

“Not now, my son,” he said, without looking.

Zayan nodded, stepped back, and never showed him anything again.

The king gave everything… except time.


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A Kingdom Celebrates

The years passed, and the king’s legend grew.
He built hospitals, opened schools, forgave debts.

On his 50th birthday, the entire city threw a festival.
Thousands came to bless him. The streets lit up in his honor.

But Zayan, now 21, did not attend.

He sat in the palace garden, watching the fireworks alone, whispering to himself:

> “You gave them all your gold, father. But you never gave me a moment.”




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Illness Comes Quietly

One winter, the king fell ill. The royal doctors called it exhaustion.
His body had served the people endlessly — now it was fading.

The king summoned Zayan to his bedside.

“You must be king now,” he said, weakly. “I taught you all I knew.”

Zayan looked at him — this man loved by millions, unknown by one.

“You taught the kingdom how to love,” he said, “but not your own son.”

The king looked away, and for the first time, tears fell from his eyes.


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The Last Gift

The king died two nights later.

Thousands marched with his casket.
The skies rained. The people wept.

But Zayan remained in the palace.

Only after the funeral did he enter his father’s private chamber. On the desk, untouched for years, was a sealed letter.

It was addressed to him.


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The Letter

> My son,

If you are reading this, I am gone.

I was a king to many — but I fear I was a stranger to you.

Forgive me.

They came to me with empty bowls, torn clothes, broken hearts. I gave them everything because I saw your mother in every crying face.

When she died, a part of me froze. Giving to others was my way of keeping her alive. But in doing so… I left you alone.

You are the only treasure I never learned to hold.

Rule better than me. Love louder than I did.

And know this — I was proud of you, even from afar.

Always.
Your Father.




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Now

Years have passed.

Zayan rules Nahazar now — a king like his father in generosity, but greater in presence.

He still feeds the poor. Still opens the palace gates.

But each evening, he walks through the garden where his father never came, holding his daughter’s hand.

When she tugs at his robe and says, “Look, Baba,” he stops — every time — and looks.

Because he learned the greatest truth too late:

> A kingdom can be rebuilt. A treasury can be filled again.
But a child who feels unseen… may never forget.