The Wind That Speaks: A Tale of Fathers, Sons, and Finding Home

A Fable of Finding Fathers and Sons

In the ashen dawn, beneath a sky smudged with sorrow, a boy named Velho awoke in a moss-draped hollow that had cradled him through the night’s cold sighs. He stretched his slender limbs, dirt beneath his nails, shadows beneath his eyes, and pulled close his single piece of cloth tied into a sack that contained everything he owned: a rusted spoon, a small rock he called lucky, a crumpled paper he could not read, and a hunger he could never quite quiet.

Velho was young in years but ancient in gaze, carrying the silence of those who have walked too many roads alone. He stepped into a colorless world, spitting into the grey dust as he set out, each footstep a quiet rebellion against forgetting.

He walked until the sky brightened, until his feet ached like an old man’s regrets, and finally stopped by a stream that glimmered like hope forgotten. Kneeling, he cupped the cold water, letting it slip between his fingers before drinking slowly, the water stinging his dry throat.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” came a singsong voice, so childish it startled Velho.

He turned and saw a man—a giant, broad as a bear, with clothes like torn flags draped over a filthy, lumbering body. His small head looked almost like a child’s on such a large frame, and despite the dirt on his skin, there was a brightness in his eyes like dawn trying to break through storm clouds.

Velho turned back to the water, drank again, then stood and replied, his voice impossibly deep for a boy, like thunder buried in a mountain, “I am Velho, and I am drinking water.”

The man clapped, his grin wide and toothy. “Velho! I’m Jovem! Why are you drinking water?”

Velho blinked, steady and silent, before answering, “Because I was thirsty.”

“I’m thirsty too!” Jovem exclaimed, dropping to his knees and trying to mimic Velho, but the water slipped through his large fingers, splashing on the rocks and into his lap. Tears welled up in his bright eyes, and Velho, with the patience of rain, showed him how to cup his hands properly, guiding Jovem’s clumsy fingers until he drank without spilling.

In his delight, Jovem lost balance and tumbled into the stream with a splash. Velho, for the first time in many moons, allowed a small ghost of a smile to cross his lips. “Since you’re already wet, now might be a good time for a bath.”

“Bath!” Jovem roared with laughter, scrubbing himself as if he could wash away the world’s sadness. They sat afterward, letting the sun dry their clothes, the river murmuring beside them.

“Where are you going, Velho?” Jovem asked, voice soft.

Velho’s smile vanished, replaced by the cold mask of someone who had learned to guard dreams. “Why should I tell you?”

Jovem flinched and began to weep, tears dropping onto the rocks as he curled into himself, mumbling, “I think I’m lost…”

Velho’s breath caught, something inside cracking like thin ice beneath a footstep. His voice, when it returned, was deep but gentle, a hidden river beneath stone. “Listen, Jovem. I am searching for a father.”

Jovem’s face brightened instantly, tears forgotten. “Yes! I remember now! I am looking for a son! Can I come with you, Velho?”

Velho’s eyes glinted, pain threading through them, but he only shrugged. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Then I’ll ask the Wind!” Jovem shouted, leaping to his feet, cupping his ear, listening to the breeze with a solemnity that was almost holy.

Velho, who never believed in such things, laughed softly, but Jovem shushed him. “The Wind says we’ll find what we need at the Circus!”

“You’re mad,” Velho scoffed.

“No, Velho,” Jovem said, looking at him with eyes so sincere it hurt. “The Wind can speak. You just don’t know how to listen.”

And so they began their journey together, the boy-man and the man-boy, the steady and the scattered, following the whisper of the Wind toward something neither could name.

They passed merchant carts brimming with bright silks and roasted meats that made their empty stomachs cry. When Velho politely asked a bloated merchant for food, the merchant sneered, demanding money. Jovem, entranced by a rainbow-glinting bauble, touched it gently, and the merchant struck his hand, causing the bauble to fall and shatter into shards of colored light.

Jovem’s cry echoed like a wounded beast’s howl, and he fled, cradling his hand, tears streaking the dirt on his face. Velho followed and found him curled beneath a tree, whispering, “Why?”

Velho’s voice was soft, yet cut like truth, “Because they can.”

They made a small fire that night, and Velho went out to hunt, returning with roasted meats, candied apples, and bread still warm from the merchant’s cart, the sack suspiciously heavier than before.

“How did you get all this?” Jovem asked, eyes round with innocent gratitude.

Velho was silent for a long time before saying, “Would you like a story?”

He told Jovem of a magic dog who tried to open a locked egg with kindness but failed, and a boy who broke it open with a stick because sometimes, the world required hard choices.

Jovem looked sad. “Can the egg be fixed?”

Velho’s smile was like rain on glass, fragile and fading. “I don’t think so.”

But Jovem clapped his hands, “We can fix it with honey! Honey is sweet and sticky, and we can glue it back together with enough time.”

Velho looked at him, eyes glassy with memories he never spoke aloud, and simply said, “Sleep, Jovem. Tomorrow we find the Circus.”

They walked the next day beneath a sky washed clean by dawn, the road filled with carts and jesters, laughter rising like incense. When evening fell, they made camp, but a cry pierced the calm.

Jovem returned, cradling a white rabbit with a broken leg, tears dripping onto its fur. “Can we help it?”

Velho shook his head gently, “It would only suffer.”

“I’ll sing to it,” Jovem whispered, and sang a song of loss and hope, a prayer from when he still had sons, a lullaby for broken things.

When the song ended, Velho’s hands, steady as death, ended the rabbit’s suffering. “For ashes we are, and to ashes we return.”

At last, they reached the Circus, its tents bright against the sky, laughter and music welcoming them. The Ringmaster announced kings and popes, a parade of splendor, and the crowd roared as the important people vanished into the tent’s maw.

Left alone outside, Jovem asked, voice trembling, “Do you think we’ll find what we’re looking for, Velho? Was the Wind right?”

Velho closed his eyes, letting the breeze brush against him, listening.

Then he smiled, took Jovem’s hand, and said, “We may already have, Jovem. The Wind was right.”

And together, they stepped forward, into the Circus, into whatever lay ahead—seeking fathers, seeking sons, but perhaps, finding each other instead.