The Man and the Stick

For years there was nothing but darkness.

I could not move. I could not turn. Occasionally a thin line of light slipped under the door, but most days there was only stillness.

Still, I waited.

I always believed that one day the door would open again.

One day you would return.

Maybe you had simply forgotten me. Maybe you had placed me here only for a moment. I told myself that someday you would need me again.

Years passed.

And then one day, the door finally opened.

Light rushed into the room so suddenly that it almost felt blinding.

For a moment, I thought it was you.

Footsteps approached. Hands reached down and lifted me from the floor where I had rested for so long.

But something felt different.

The grip was not the same. The movement was unfamiliar.

Still, I said nothing. I could only feel myself being carried away.

The air outside was warmer than I remembered. Brighter. The world felt alive again after so many years in darkness.

Then the heat grew stronger.

And as the warmth surrounded me, memories began to return.

I remembered the day we first met.

You had an accident. That was what the doctor said. Something had happened to your eye, something that could not be fixed.

The day you walked out of that hospital, you found me.

Your balance.

Your support.

Your guide.

Your brown walking stick.

From that day on, we went everywhere together.

You held me firmly as we walked through streets and buildings, across floors of every kind. Some were smooth and cold, some rough and dusty. Some were wet after the rain. Some were sticky and unpleasant. I remember tapping against stairs, sliding across tiles, bumping gently against walls.

I learned the world through the ground beneath me.

You used me to tap ahead, to feel what stood in your path. Sometimes you struck the floor louder so people would know you were coming. When they noticed you, their voices often softened.

Many of them sounded sad.

They pitied you.

I could feel it in the way they spoke, in the way they helped guide your steps.

You never liked that.

You never liked sympathy.

But I always thought it was something beautiful. Humans were strange like that. They could be so kind to each other, yet refuse kindness when it was offered to them.

Still, you never let your blindness stop you.

We walked everywhere.

Morning walks in the cool air. Visits to friends and relatives. Long streets and quiet corners of the city.

I was there through all of it.

Your happiness.

Your anger.

Your sadness.

Sometimes when you were frustrated, you threw me aside.

It hurt.

But I understood.

And you always came back to pick me up.

I was with you through every part of your life.

Then one day the doctors told you something new.

They said there was a surgery.

A chance to restore your eye.

No one was happier than I was.

I thought about how wonderful it would be for you to finally see the world. The trees, the sky, the streets we walked every day. All the things I had touched for so long.

I thought we would explore even more places together.

The day of your surgery was the longest day of my life.

I waited the whole time, worrying about what might happen. What if something went wrong? What if you still could not see?

But when you finally came out, I saw the smile on your face.

It was the happiest I had ever seen you.

And that made me happier than anything else.

What I never imagined was what would happen after.

The day you got your sight back, you opened a door to a room I did not even know existed.

You walked inside, leaned me gently against the wall, and left.

The door closed.

And the darkness began.

At first I thought you had simply forgotten me.

You would come back soon.

Maybe later that day.

Maybe tomorrow.

I told myself you would return the moment you needed me again.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Then years.

Still I waited.

Sometimes a faint line of light slipped under the door, and for a moment I imagined you standing on the other side.

I imagined the door opening.

I imagined your hand reaching for me again.

But the door never opened.

We had walked through so much of life together. I had been there for every step you took when you could not see.

For so long, I had been your eyes.

And now I was only a forgotten thing in a dark room.

But even then, I never hated you.

If anything, I was proud.

Because somewhere out there you were seeing the world for the first time.

The colors.



The sky.

The faces of the people you loved.

I hoped the world was beautiful to you.

I hoped it made you less cynical than you used to be when you lived in darkness.

I hoped you were happy.



The heat around me is much stronger now.

The air crackles. Wood snaps somewhere nearby.

And slowly, I begin to understand.

The hands that carried me here were never yours.

They belonged to someone else.

Perhaps someone cleaning the house.

Perhaps someone who saw me only as an old piece of wood.

Something useless.

Something forgotten.

Something no one needed anymore.



The flames are climbing higher now.

My body is beginning to crack and burn.

But strangely, the fire is not what hurts the most.

What hurts is knowing that you are not here.

Still, as the flames grow brighter, I find myself thinking of you one last time.

Wherever you are now, I hope you saw the world the way you always wanted to.

I hope the sky was beautiful.

I hope life was kind to you.

And I hope that at least once, somewhere along the way, you remembered the stick that walked with you through the dark.



— The Stick

by Nin Nin