The Last Remnant

In the arid expanse of the ancestor’s land, a stranger from the city met a local indigenous man. The outsider, with a facade of concern, held a jug and approached the sole surviving tree, a relic from greener times. "Take this jug and water the old tree; it’s thirsty," he advised. "Rain is rare here." The local, touched by such thoughtfulness, felt a surge of admiration. "What a good soul he must be to think of our lone tree amid this desolation," he mused.

Respectfully, the local man removed his felt hat, pressed it to his chest, and bowed deeply. "I am amazed," he confessed. "How can someone travel so far, across such barren lands, to speak with us, understand our struggles, console us, and yet still notice this ancient tree? And to offer the water you surely needed for yourself — truly, you have a heart for our land."

The stranger smiled wryly. "Hurry and water the tree. Without it, no memory of the lush days of this land will remain, nor the joys of your ancestors."

With the jug in his right hand, the local man grasped the stranger’s left hand, pressing it warmly. "Bless the milk your mother fed you with, for your heart truly beats for this land," he repeated with reverence.

Upon hearing this, the stranger gently withdrew his hand and reiterated, "Go, the tree is thirsty. Do not waste a single drop! This jug is for the tree. Pour it slowly, let its heart be refreshed." After emptying the jug, he instructed the man to bring it back so he could refill it on his next visit. The local man quickly went to the tree, while the stranger turned to engage with other villagers.

When the local returned with the empty jug, ready to return it, he found the villagers encircling him, agitated and voicing their pain loudly. They lamented their daily sufferings, ignored by those who merely talked of help. "We survive today, but what of tomorrow? Our futures grow only harder, and our efforts seem vain," they cried out.

Smiling, the stranger addressed the crowd. "I came here to remind you not to lose hope. Keep striving together," he said, half-cut by the other's interruption, who held up the empty jug, proclaiming, "He speaks the truth!" He gestured towards the jug. "Anyone who brings water to save the last tree of an ancient era cannot be doubted. We were focused on surviving, but he was preserving our roots."

Everyone's eyes locked on the empty jug. The stranger snapped it from the man's hand, his smile sharp. "Enough fuss over a jug of water. You're spoiling my reputation. It’s nothing." Turning to the villagers, he continued, "Neither I nor this jug matter. What matters is this tree, the last living testament to the fertile times of this place. If God forbid this tree dies, no one will believe life once thrived here. You will be forgotten, and no traveler will pass by. You might be forced to leave, and all your years of endurance will vanish like dust."

As he drove away, taking the jug with him, the stranger watched the cloud of dust from his window until the village and the ancient tree faded from view. With disgust and indifference, he tossed the jug out the window and wiped his hands clean with an intricately embroidered handkerchief given to him earlier that day, which he also discarded.

Far behind, the once mighty tree felt its roots burn from the acid, losing branches and leaves, drying up completely. With its death, the village's last connection to a vibrant past was severed, eventually leading the remaining villagers to leave. Upon his return with the driver, finding no one lived there anymore, he ordered the tree cut down and burned, erasing the last traces of the village's once prosperous existence. To this day, no one understood that he had filled the jug with acid, intending to destroy the final remnant of prosperity in the land.

Thus, the fate he had envisioned for people came to pass, a strategy he had repeated in many forgotten places, his name wrongly revered among the displaced.