The Hill

The horizon was split between the rocks and the clouds. Along the slope to the top of the hill stood five trees silhouetted by the setting sun. The golden rays passed through them but the outlines of them held stark contrast to the bright afternoon. Rested atop the hill was an old wooden chair. It remained there constantly in wait for the old man to use it. It had no other purpose. Each night as the sun began to dip below the rocky outcrop of the jutting land the old man would begin his journey. The villagers below were used to the custom though never fully understood it. They would watch as the dark figure made his way up the hill. It took the man hours to reach but each night he arrived at the top and sat in the chair. The black figure who appeared as a shadow to those below walked with his cane over the dirt and dried remains of once living plants. No matter how hot or cold the man would climb. He passed by and through the trees till he reached the top. Children would often point out the man as they giggled and laughed at his routine. His home which showed the same age as he did on his weathered face sat at the base of the hill apart from the rest of the village. He rarely had visitors and rarely cared to have any. But each evening he left his home and began his travels. Upon reaching the top he would sit down in the chair and open his book. A man once stopped him in the village as he bought his food for the week and asked the man “Why do you do it? Why do you spend so much time and energy walking all the way up that steep hill just to read?” The old man responded “I read to the sun. I read it to sleep so that it will rise in the morning and bring us warmth and our harvests life. But I also read to my wife. I imagine that she is with that sun and as I read she is next to me listening.”


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