Zoraiz and the Whisper of the Fields

Zoraiz was twenty-three, caught in those strange years when everyone is trying to grow, to become something, to prove that their life means more than silence.

But Zoraiz lives far away from all the noise, somewhere in a quiet village where the fields seem to breathe along with the wind. His place is not much, just a little farmhouse on the end of the valley, sort of falling into the ground. During the morning, the light pours gold across the wheat, and every now and then the bleating of the goats in the background is like that certain tune you used to recall.

He did not have much. A few goats, some sheep, and Sarmad, his horse, his companion, and perhaps the only soul who ever understood his quietness.

Every day, as the sun began to lower its gaze between four and seven o’clock, when the air turned soft and alive, Zoraiz would ride Sarmad into the open fields. The villagers often watched him go, shaking their heads.

They didn’t understand why a young man would waste time talking to the wind instead of chasing money or marriage proposals.

But Zoraiz didn’t care.

He loved that hour when the earth smelled of sun-warmed grass and the sky began to turn from gold to orange. He would ride without purpose, feeling the pulse of Sarmad’s steps beneath him.

And as they moved through the fields, he would talk.

Not to people but to Sarmad.

You know, Sarmad, he would say softly, “Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong world.” Everyone’s running, but no one knows where.

The horse would flick his ears as if listening.

Zoraiz would smile. “You get it, don’t you? You don’t rush. You just breathe.”

He told Sarmad about his fears and how he worried that his dreams were too small or too strange. He wanted peace, not power. He wanted truth, not fame. He wants to feel alive, not just survive.

Some days, when the silence grew too deep, he imagined Sarmad answering him. In his mind, Sarmad’s voice was calm, like a river speaking to the stones beneath it:

“Don’t measure your worth by the noise of others, Zoraiz. The seed doesn’t shout when it grows.”

When it was dark, after he had fed the goats and washed the grime off of his face, Zoraiz would sit outside near Sarmad’s stable. He would gaze up at the stars, the very same that had been watching his people’s people, and whisper, “One day, I will understand what I am meant to do. Maybe not today. Maybe not soon. But you’ll be with me, won’t you?”

Sarmad would dip his head softly, just grazing Zoraiz’s shoulder with his nose, an unspoken vow in the darkness. And somewhere in the crotchety hum of crickets and whine of the wind in the trees, Zoraiz felt that quiet faith that life didn’t need to be big and boisterous in order to mean something.

He didn’t need to escape the village.

He didn’t need to be someone else.

He just needed to listen.

And Sarmad, his faithful listener, would always be there to hear.

To be continued…

This isn’t the end. The next chapter is just around the corner. In the meantime, I’d love to hear your thoughts. What did you enjoy? Where can I improve? Your feedback really helps me grow.

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