"Look, Dad!" said the little boy to his father, pointing to the sky, "It's like a star, but it's moving!" he added in an awestruck voice as if he had never seen such a sight in his life.
"Indeed, my son," replied the father, his voice betraying his age, a stalk of wheat between his lips as he held the pitchfork firmly in one hand. This shooting star, so beautiful, yet so fleeting, did they find meaning in its existence as they tried to find it in their own? No matter how much the old man tried, he couldn't. But for him, his life felt pretty complete the moment his child was born. Yet a part of him regretted having brought him into this world, not because he didn't love his son—far from it—but simply because he felt this boy, with his innocent mind and simple view of things, didn't deserve to live in a world that is filled with suffering, envy, and jealousy.
"Let's go inside, son. It’s getting late," said the father, lowering his head to look at his child, who was still staring at the sky.
"But Dad, I want to see another one!" replied the little boy, slightly disappointed that he hadn’t seen another shooting star.
"Son, shooting stars are rare. Did you make a wish?" asked the father as his eyes drifted to the horizon. A police car was approaching their ranch, accompanied by a transport van painted in police colours.
"Dad, look! The police are here," remarked the little boy, who hadn’t answered his father’s question, although he had indeed taken the time to make a wish. The police car, now very close to their home, made a turn and parked directly in front of their door. The old man began walking toward them to talk, with his son following behind.
"Sir, you know as well as I do what day it is," one of the officers said in a firm voice, expecting cooperation.
"Yes, of course, sir. The supplies are in the same place as last time," the old man responded immediately, not wanting to cause any trouble with a police force known for its strictness. The police officer slowly turned toward his colleagues and nodded, a signal they understood as they headed toward the back of the ranch. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the two colleagues returned, each holding two bags, except for the second officer, who was carrying only one.
"We weighed them. There’s 5 kilos missing," one of the colleagues said in a voice so monotonous it sounded almost robotic.
"That’s unfortunate," the officer replied as he pulled something from his pocket—a sort of notepad where he began writing something with a pen. "As a gesture of thanks for your cooperation over the past few months, and especially for your service to the country..." the officer added, still writing in his notepad, never once looking at the old man throughout the entire exchange. "We won’t count the shortage. You won’t be penalized. But next time, make sure you have all the required provisions," he lifted his head as if waiting for the old man’s response.
"Y-yes, no problem. Thank you," the old man replied in a trembling voice, while the officer simply nodded in return. His colleagues loaded the provisions into the van before leaving, and the officer followed behind in his car. The old man sighed, as the calm of nature returned around them.