Shinta sat at his desk, enduring the relentless teasing of his classmates. Awkward questions pierced the air: "Where were you during your absence?" "What are those scars from?" The onslaught ceased only with the arrival of their literature teacher, who promptly began the lesson.
Today's story was about two friends. One was deemed worthy by the gods and chosen to ascend, leaving the other behind. One was good and one was bad. The good friend was chosen by the god. The remaining friend, burdened by his sins, pleaded with the gods to take his life instead. The gods remained silent.
The teacher paused, her gaze sweeping across the room. "If you were in that situation, would you sacrifice yourself for a friend, or let them die?"
A chorus of voices responded, "We'd give our lives for our friends! Especially for those we love!"
The teacher's eyes landed on Shinta, who was scribbling in his notebook. "How about you son? What's your decision?"
A hush fell over the room as Shinta looked up. "I'd let my loved ones die instead of me."
A collective gasp rippled through the classroom. Whispers of "selfish" and "heartless" filled the air until the teacher silenced them with a sharp command. "Shinta, explain your reasoning."
Shinta's voice was calm, almost detached. "If you die, you no longer feel the pain others experience. People commit suicide because they reach a point where they prefer non-existence to their current suffering. Remember the 'bad friend' in the story? He wished he could die in place of his friend, not out of altruism, but to escape the despair of living without him. As a bad person do you think he would think to sacrifice him self for his friend or to not experience the despair after his friends death?"
An uncomfortable silence descended. His words hung in the air, unsettling and profound. Even the teacher seemed taken aback, a flicker of intrigue in her eyes. "I like your way of thinking," she said with a smirk.
"Thank you," Shinta replied, returning to his seat as the lesson continued.
Lunchtime found him alone, wandering the streets in search of an affordable meal. The school cafeteria was beyond his means.
"Stop him!"
The desperate cry shattered the midday calm. Reacting instantly, Shinta tackled the fleeing man to the ground, pinning his arm and retrieving the stolen bag. A young woman, Ivy, rushed over, urging Shinta to release the man. Shinta hesitated, his grip firm.
Ivy questioned the man, discovering he was driven by desperation, short on money to feed his family. Moved, Ivy offered him enough money to sustain them for a few days and handed him a card with a potential job opportunity.
"You're very kind to do that for someone who robbed you," Shinta observed.
Ivy smiled sadly. "I know what it feels like to be desperate." After the man left, Ivy thanked Shinta for his help, adding, "I don't care about the money, but there was something in that bag that's priceless. But a grain of wheat is greater than compare to it's worth."
"Oh? And what could the daughter of the country's wealthiest man possess that's more valuable than her entire fortune?" Shinta asked.
Ivy pulled out a worn piece of rag cloth. "It's just this old thing. Weird, right?"
"Not if it has a story," Shinta replied.
"It does, I guess. My parents say it's worth more than anything we own because it belonged to the boy who gave us the chance to rise to the top." Ivy recounted waking up in a hospital bed after a bus accident, her parents by her side. The only thing the boy had left her was this cloth. She was on her way back to her parents, and the bus crashed a few meters from a local restaurant where she was saved by a boy.
Ivy then offered to treat Shinta to lunch as a thank you for his help, both now and in the past. Grateful and hungry, Shinta accepted, knowing the afternoon classes were about to begin.
That evening, Ivy and her parents were at dinner, discussing the day's events. Ivy recounted the robbery and her act of kindness, which her parents applauded. Then, she mentioned the cloth and the room fell silent.
Her father asked, "Do you still remember the boy who saved you?"
Her mother added, "Or the one who gave us the chance to rise?"
Ivy confirmed that she remembered. Her father revealed that it was the same person. "The cloth we gave you was from the cloth we gave to him. We took care of him, giving him shelter and paying forward the kindness that allowed us to rise."
A wave of realization washed over Ivy, a sense of having almost forgotten someone incredibly important. A similar feeling seemed to grip her parents, a shared sense of lost memory.