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Random Facts, New York, NY (2025)

09/21/2025

The Horse Who Chased the Breath of Storms

In the red-valley country, storms had a personality boastful, urgent, generous after apology. Most animals hid when sky-drums started; roofs were better than courage. But a dun mare named Kaya lifted her face to the first cold wind and stamped the ground like answering a challenge.

She loved storms not for danger but for order: the way lightning mapped ridges; the way wind braided scent; the way rain wrote truth across dust. Raiders hated storms. Tracks smeared, fires sulked, horses slipped. So when men with ash on their faces came to steal millet and names, they chose clear nights. Kaya watched them once from the acacia’s shadow and memorized their smell iron, impatience, goat tallow.

The season turned mean. Raiders came thrice in one moon. The village dug trenches and learned to sleep lightly. “We need a message faster than feet,” said the chief, a woman who braided warnings into her hair. Drums carried only as far as stubborn hills allowed. Torch lines were a weaverbird’s nest of confusion. The night did not respect plans.

Kaya found the answer while racing a storm along the ridge. She slipped into the cool eye that held breath at the heart of a tantrum where sound becomes counsel. There, thunder tells you what it will break; wind admits where it is going. She returned wet and shining and refused the tether.

When the raiders next lit their cold fires, Kaya stamped twice and bolted toward the storm sitting heavy to the west. Villagers shouted after her, but the chief only smiled the smile of someone who recognizes a pattern being born. Kaya climbed until the wind’s fist opened and let her in. In that quiet room she seized a burning branch wrapped in wet leaves, a foolish thing that became wise in her teeth. She galloped the ridge and planted signal fires on three knuckles of rock the old ancestors’ path. The flames puffed small, steady. The valley woke in the language of light. Doors barred. Children tucked into ground-hugging baskets. Men rolled millstones onto the narrow path. Women lifted the last pots from cooking stones and hid embers under ash to fool greedy eyes.

The raiders hit a village awake instead of dream-dumb. Their leader spat and swore the ground had gone treacherous. Kaya, meanwhile, dropped into the dry riverbed and beat a path where hooves would not betray. She circled back into the storm’s hush, lifted another branch, and lit the far ridge, guiding allied villages to close the jaws of the hills. Caught between rock and readiness, the raiders fled into rain that finally remembered itself, and the storm washed their tracks into a lesson.

After, the chief stroked Kaya’s neck. “You run with thunder,” she said. “Teach us.” Kaya taught not speed but timing: how to hear the storm’s inhale; when to bind roof thatch; where to stack stones; how to lay fire lines that light like sentences, not shouts. She led young horses into the first edges of storms and held them steady until their hearts matched the sky’s metronome.

Kaya aged into a slope-backed queen. On her last night, a storm rolled in like an old friend who knew where the cups were kept. The chief hair white now, still braided with warnings led Kaya to the ridge. Together they watched lightning map the valley they had taught to read. When the wind’s breath turned sweet, Kaya lay down. The storm bowed without rain.

Now when thunder steps into the valley, children run to the signal stones to see if the horse’s path still glows. On some nights it does not with flame, but with memory bright enough to warm decisions.

Moral: Courage is speed married to timing and given to everyone.

09/21/2025

The Guinea Fowl Who Wore the Sky’s Scars

Before the guinea fowl wore pearls, her feathers were plain smoke, easily lost in grass. She lived careful, kept to shade, and envied the peacock’s brag. Then the Sky split.

It began with a quarrel between wind and heat. Clouds stacked like stubborn goats. Light broke loose and tore the night white wounds that did not heal. Fire leapt from hill to hill. People ran with wet cloths. Animals fled into holes that remembered them. In the chaos, a clutch of guinea fowl chicks scattered near the thorn fence of the millet field. Their mother, Ama, counted soft bodies and found two missing.

Lightning drove needles into the earth. Thunder kicked doors. Ama stepped into the open anyway, because fear sits down when love stands up. She heard one chick crying under a thorn, another gone silent beyond the ash line. She called the old call, the one shaped like home. The first chick tumbled toward her, wild with relief. For the second, there was only cracked air and a lull where fire took breath.

Ama did what no sensible bird does: she ran into light. Sparks bit her wings. Smoke wrote confusion in her eyes. She followed the quiver of grass where a small body had pressed, then found the chick crumpled by a hot stone, stunned but breathing. She tucked both under her breast and turned back, but the way had closed fire courting fire. She looked up at a sky stitched with wounds and said, in the language birds use when speaking to big things, “If I carry your scars, will you carry me?”

A soft happened. Not a miracle, exactly more the world remembering kindness. The wind bent the flame into a doorway. Ama ran through. Sparks burst against her feathers and froze there as white spots. She fell into safe grass with chicks held fast. Rain arrived late but sincerely, laying cool hands on everything.

The village woke to a bird who looked like night wearing stars and to two chicks alive who should not have been. Children pressed their fingers to her speckles and asked if they hurt. “Not anymore,” she seemed to say. The elders named her pattern Sky’s Scars and told a new law over the ashes: those who carry for others shall be carried when their legs fail.

From then on, when grassfires threatened, people left a path clear at field edges for frantic birds and slower animals. Hunters set aside water bowls near snares so that mercy could find its excuse. And guinea fowl practical, anxious, lovely in their new clothes learned a fiercer courage. Mothers would flare wings over chicks at the first rumble; fathers kept watch from termite mounds, pearl dots glimmering like warnings written in light.

Some say the peacock visited to offer compliments disguised as advice. “Why not arrange your spots in rows? Symmetry sells.” Ama simply turned in the sun until her scars glittered and the peacock’s crown felt heavy.

Years later, a child asked why guinea fowl wear stars while day is bright. Her grandmother touched the girl’s cheek. “So we remember that bravery doesn’t wait for praise-night. It shines at noon, where everyone can see.”

Moral: The marks we earn from protecting others become our brightest beauty.

09/21/2025

The Crocodile Who Guarded the River’s Secret Door

In the bend of the Duma River where reeds kept confidences and hippos spoke in bubbles, the current slowed as if remembering. Fishermen said there was a “second river” hiding under the first an old channel that flowed in drought and dreamed in flood. Only one creature knew its door: a scarred crocodile named Kito, whose eyes were patient lanterns in muddy dusk.

Kito was not feared for his bite but respected for his stillness. He watched seasons slip their skins, watched children grow into paddlers, paddlers into elders, elders into songs. When the river laughed, he showed his teeth; when it wept, he closed them. He kept one secret: at the hottest week of harmattan, when water thinned to necklaces of brown beads, he dove to a rock shaped like a sleeping gourd. Beneath it was a hollow a throat taking the river’s last sweet breath and carrying it to hidden pools upriver.

One year the sky burned like brass. Nets lifted dust, not tilapia. Women pressed empty calabashes to their ribs as if listening for echoes of soup. Men argued with mirages. The chief called meetings where plans evaporated as quickly as words. “Dig new wells,” said one. “Sell the boats,” said another. Children cried in voices smaller than thirst.

At dusk, a girl named Zuri followed dragonflies and found Kito lounging in the warm shallows, his eyelids thin as promise. “Grandfather River,” she whispered the respectful name children used for any old thing that kept the world together ‘where is your kindness hiding?”

Kito slid closer, his mass quiet as a thought. He tasted the air and felt her plea settle like silt. For the first time in his many years he left the door during day. He rose, water pouring from his back like ropes of glass, and drifted toward the village landing. The paddlers froze. An old woman lifted a cooking spoon like a spear; it trembled and became a prayer.

Zuri stepped between fear and custom. “He wants us to follow,” she said. She had the tone of someone who had listened well all her short life. Kito turned downstream, slow enough for dugouts to keep pace, and guided them by sandbars and sun-bleached snags. At the bend he sank. People peered over their gunwales and saw nothing but mirror. Zuri held her breath until Kito reappeared and thumped the gourd-shaped rock with his tail. Once. Twice. Three times. The stone shivered and tilted. A dark mouth yawned in the riverbed.

Cold water surged through clear, insistent, alive. It snatched the dugouts and spun them, then steadied as if embarrassed by its own excitement. In minutes the brown necklace braided into a silver rope. The rope tugged the channel awake; hidden pools upstream sighed and spilled. Nets found shape again. Fish flicked like coins newly minted.

The village cheered and reached for Kito with gratitude they had never aimed at a crocodile. But he had already slid into the door, settling his body across its threshold. “He’s blocking it!” someone cried. Zuri shook her head. “He’s guarding it. A door without a keeper becomes a wound.”

For three days and nights Kito held the mouth open with the architecture of his body, nudging driftwood aside, shouldering boulders, fending the greedy teeth of silt. Herons sang a thin song of thanks. Children threw him peeled plantain, which he ignored with dignity. On the fourth morning the current learned its new habit and no longer needed him there. He surfaced, ribs showing, and floated in a ring of lilies while Zuri rubbed the old mud from his back with brave fingers.

The chief wanted to mark the place with a shrine and a fee. Zuri spoke before fear could dress as tradition. “Water that remembers must not be taxed,” she said. “We will mark it with watchers, not walls.” So the village appointed two guardians one elder, one child changing every moon. Their only duty was to listen for trouble and to feed Kito with stories at dusk.

When the rains finally came, they came with laughter, not revenge. The river ran where it should and where it now could. Kito swam less, basked more. He lived to see Zuri grow tall and stubborn. On the day he did not rise, the water around the door was very still. Zuri sat beside the sleeping gourd rock and spoke to the surface as if it had ears.

“We will keep your door,” she promised.

That bend is different now. Paddles lift and pause there. Children lower their voices without being told. And when droughts arrive with their brittle grammar, the river opens its second mouth not because someone roared at it, but because a crocodile once showed it how to remember.

Moral: The greatest strength is knowing what to guard and when to share it.

09/21/2025

The Parrot Who Carried the Sky

A season of dust pressed the blue so low that birds skimmed it with their wings and came away choking. The sun wore a brown mask. Children coughed. Goats chewed bitterness. The elders said the sky was tired of listening to boasts and had decided to sit down.

Among the flock was a small green parrot named Nkem who spoke less than parrots are famous for. While others argued new complaints into old air, she flew to the river reeds and learned a thin healing tune. The reeds had sung it to the wind long before people named months. The tune soothed dust. It lifted the chest. It showed where air still remembered itself.

Nkem tried the song alone. The dust above her parted like a curtain. She flew in slow circles over the market, singing until the narrow blue widened. People shaded their eyes and felt their lungs wake. The chief asked for a parade to celebrate. Nkem shook her head and rested her throat on a cool leaf.

The next day the dust fell again. Songs do not change seasons in a single breath. Nkem returned to the river and taught the tune to two sunbirds and a weaverbird who could hold a low hum better than any drum. They flew a weaving path over the fields, singing in turns so no note broke. Children lifted pots and set them down lighter. Women pounded yam and did not have to pause for air. Men on the road laughed for the first time in a week because laughter needs space and now there was a little.

Pride sniffed the wind. A bright macaw from another valley arrived with a throat full of thunder and a chest full of himself. He tried to sing over Nkem, stacking big notes on the small ones until the pattern tore. Dust rushed back. He bowed and left when no one clapped. Nkem did not scold. She began again at the edges where cures prefer to start.

At last the harmattan sighed and lifted. Rains washed the trees until they looked like thoughts finally said out loud. People came to thank Nkem. She perched on a child’s shoulder and let tiny fingers stroke her head. She did not accept garlands. She asked for something better. “Learn the tune,” she said. “Teach it to your children. Use it when smoke lies and when grief sits on your chest. The sky will tire again. Sing it awake.”

They learned in small groups under the mango. The reed melody became a village habit like washing hands and greeting elders. When the next dust season arrived, the sky tried to sit but changed its mind more quickly. Travelers who passed through asked who had carried the sky that year. People pointed toward the reeds. The river kept the song low in its water and gave it freely.

As Nkem grew old, her voice thinned like thread that has done good work. She flew less. When the last harmattan of her life arrived, she climbed to the roof of the school and began the first line. Children picked it up. Mothers caught it and passed it along. The blue opened. Nkem lay down in a patch of warm sun and closed her eyes while the sky she had lifted settled kindly over her.

Now when dust comes, the village does not panic first. They wet cloths and quiet their pride. They gather under the mango and sing the reed line until the air remembers how to be a home.

Moral: Quiet service lifts what the loud cannot hold.

09/21/2025

Proverbs

09/21/2025

The Time When Fire Left the Earth

Once, every family kept a coal under ash, and every neighbor had the right to borrow a flame without asking. Then a season of quarrels came. People slammed doors. They guarded embers as if warmth were a throne. One night Fire, insulted in a hundred small ways, rose in a hiss and flew into the sky to hide inside lightning.

Cold walked into houses. Cassava stayed hard. Drums lost heart. Children wore three cloths to bed and still shook. People tried tricks. They struck stones until their hands were full of hurt. They begged the wind to return a spark. The wind laughed without joy and raced away.

At the edge of the village lived a blind grandmother named Mama Adamma. She sat by a cold hearth with a basket of dry thundergrass and listened to the clouds. She called the children. “Bring me reeds that have tasted storm. Bring me vines that remember rain.” They came with arms full. She braided long ropes from the thundergrass and taught the children to sing a steady song that counted the heartbeats between light and sound.

“When the sky breaks,” she said, “you will throw the rope into the place where thunder hides. You will not be greedy. You will be quick. You will share.”

They practiced in the dry courtyard until their feet knew where to stand and their hands knew what to do. When the first storm finally swaggered over the hills, the children stood on the ridge with their ropes and their song. Lightning spoke in white lines. They waited for the note that said now. They threw. The ropes hissed. Sparks bit into the braided grass and held, trapped in the tight twist like a bee cupped in hands. The children lowered the ropes to clay pots lined with damp leaves to keep the new fire from running. They carried the pots through rain that tried to be clever and failed.

At Mama Adamma’s door they placed the first flame. She warmed her palms and did not keep it. She sent it to the house that had refused to share last year. The next pot went to the widow with two babies. The third to the hunter who cooked for children whose parents were far. All day the pots traveled. All night smoke rose again, telling stories in the old language above roofs.

Morning came soft and golden. People gathered under the iroko. The chief stood to speak pride but Mama Adamma lifted her chin and turned toward the sound of the crowd. “Listen,” she said. “Fire left because we forgot who we are to one another. If you hoard again, it will leave again. Make a vow.”

They spoke together so the vow would have more than one throat. No keeper of flame will refuse a neighbor. No child will be turned away in rain. No hearth will be locked. No coal will be shamed for going out if the owner is old or unlucky. They rubbed a coal on the iroko’s root to seal the promise, and the tree held the heat like a wise elder holds gossip.

Seasons passed. Lightning still had its work, yet fire preferred to stay where singing hands remembered it kindly. Children learned to plait thundergrass after the first rains and to store it high. When a traveler arrived at night, the village lit his path with small torches and called him brother until morning. And when a quarrel threatened to grow teeth, someone would lift a pot lid and let the shared flame remind their faces who they had promised to be.

If you ask why the old women touch the hearth before they give advice, they will answer without hurry. Because warmth is the first truth a house should speak.

Moral: Gifts live with those who share them.

09/21/2025

Proverb:
“Even the moon was once a sliver before it became full.”

Interpretation (write-up for caption or reels):
Greatness doesn’t appear overnight. Like the moon, growth comes in phases slow, steady, sometimes hidden. Don’t envy someone’s full glow if you haven’t seen their beginning sliver. Honor your journey, no matter how small today seems.

09/21/2025

The Tortoise Who Fought with Wisdom

The year the river bullied the village, a baboon champion boasted in the market square. He could break spears with his thigh. He could uproot a young palm. He clapped once and boys jumped. He laughed and goats scattered. When he tired of praise, he demanded challengers. No one stepped forward because bones heal slowly and pride heals slower.

From the crowd came Tortoise, shell scratched by years and eyes that had learned quiet. He lifted one careful foot onto the circle of dust. People laughed kindly at first and then unkindly. Baboon threw his head back. “You, little rock, wish to wrestle thunder?”

Tortoise nodded. “I accept in seven days. Meet me at the fig by the river at dawn.” He turned and left before mockery could find the words it wanted.

In those seven days he did not train his limbs. He trained his mind. He watched where the sun struck the water and turned it to a mirror that stabbed the eye. He loosened vines near the fig and tied them high to small bells he had borrowed from the millet store. He polished a flat stone until it held the morning like a bowl. He visited Weaverbirds and asked them to rise on his whistle. He spoke to the river and learned its shallow step. Last, he sat with children and practiced stillness while they tried to distract him. When they failed, they grinned and called him Elder Stone.

Dawn came quiet as a held breath. Baboon stamped into the clearing, oiled and loud. He pounded his chest at his reflection in the river until he loved himself even more. The crowd ringed the fig. Tortoise waited in the shade and did not blink when Baboon danced. He only said, “Let us begin.”

Baboon lunged. Tortoise took two slow steps so that the sun slid off the polished stone into Baboon’s eyes. Baboon roared and swung at the light. The blow met air and pride. He charged again. Tortoise side-stepped into the shallow path and let Baboon splash where the mud has no patience. Bells sang in the fig. Weaverbirds rose in a sudden cloud. Wings beat like a thousand small drums. Baboon flinched at the shock of feathers and lost his footing. The river kissed his knees. Laughter started and then bit its own tongue because this fight had turned into a lesson.

Baboon gathered himself and came a third time. Tortoise tucked into his shell and listened. He waited until the big hands grabbed his sides to lift him. Then he let go of his weight. Baboon thought he had found victory and shouted to the crowd. Tortoise whispered. Weaverbirds dipped, tugged a vine, and a curtain of fig leaves dropped across Baboon’s face. For one heartbeat he could not see. Tortoise extended one leg, hooked Baboon’s ankle, and turned his body the way a farmer turns a yam in soft soil. Baboon went down with more surprise than pain.

Tortoise did not place a foot on his chest. He did not strut. He backed away and bowed to the crowd and then to Baboon. “I did not defeat you,” he said. “I simply asked the morning for help.”

Baboon sat up, mud on his pride, and found that the crowd was not jeering him. They were looking at Tortoise with a new kind of respect that does not shout. He stood, shook off water, and touched his fist to Tortoise’s shell. “Teach me the way you breathe,” he said. Tortoise smiled because this was the victory he had wished for from the first day.

After that the market square changed. Challenges were still made, but now they came with questions about wind and light and footing. Boys learned to practice thinking before moving. Girls learned that a plan has muscles. The river still bullied when storms fed it, yet people met it with ropes placed where current forgets its strength and with songs that set feet in a wiser rhythm.

When children asked why the baboon became the gentlest guard of the millet store, elders told this story and added only one sentence. Power is loud until wisdom enters the room.

Moral: Strategy that preserves dignity defeats strength that seeks applause.

09/21/2025

Proverb:
“When the wind forgets the trees, the roots still remember the storm.”

Interpretation:
Strength is not only shown in what is visible but in what lies beneath. Even when the winds of life seem to pass you by, the roots of your resilience remain grounded in every challenge you’ve overcome. Stay rooted. Stay strong.

09/21/2025

African proverb

09/21/2025

The Crocodile Who Loved the Rain

Crocodiles of the great river loved heat that polished their backs and sharpened their teeth. Odu, the youngest, was wrong by their standards. When thunder stitched black cloth across the sky, he opened his jaws to taste the first drops and slapped puddles until water leapt like children. “Rain hides prey,” the elders snorted. “Rain swells the river; fish scatter.” Odu only hummed to the rhythm on his scales.

A parched year came one of those seasons that writes cracks in the earth like angry letters. The river shrank into stringed pools. Fish breathed at the surface like begging. Crocodiles grew thin, eyes sinking into their skulls. The elders demanded hunts by noon when the last heat drove fish to the remaining pockets. Odu remembered a place he’d discovered during his storm-dances: a stone cave that hoarded rain in a deep bowl.

He spoke up. “Follow me.” Laughter fell like dry leaves. But hunger eats pride. They followed his wavering tail through dead reeds to the cave where cool shadows smelled of old thunder. Inside, a pool waited deep, sweet, alive with fish trapped since the last storm. Crocodiles rushed in. Their first gulps sounded like prayers.

“You saved us,” a scarred elder whispered.

“The rain saved us,” Odu said. “I only listened when you wouldn’t.”

Jealousy nipped at gratitude. Some elders claimed they “nearly remembered” the cave. Odu didn’t argue; he marked a path of smooth stones from river to cave, so even the blind could find it with their bellies. Then the drought hardened. One evening a brushfire ran low across the banks. Smoke hid the path; panic scattered the weak. Odu slid along the stone line and bumped hatchlings forward with his snout, herded a toothless aunt with his flank, and waited at the cave mouth until the last tail disappeared. Heat licked the entrance and died on the cool water’s breath.

When the first storm finally returned, Odu surfaced under it like a king under coronation. Raindrops drummed his skull; he laughed a sound no one had taught him. Other crocodiles lifted their heads, ashamed of how right joy had been. From then on, when clouds gathered, they didn’t grumble like old mats. They held still and let the rain write patience across their hides.

Odu spent the next seasons mapping rain to where it lingered under cliffs, to how long it took a new pool to sour, to which reeds sang sweet water versus bitter. He taught the littlest ones to listen to the difference between thunder that lies and thunder that arrives. He placed flat stones at crossings so mothers could move hatchlings without slipping.

When he grew big enough to be obeyed, he never raised his voice. He kept raising the river instead—with paths, with knowledge, with the quiet courage of being right too early. And whenever a young one asked why he loved the rain, he would say, “Because it turns the sky into a river and a wise crocodile swims in both.”

In the next drought the elders didn’t wait to sneer before following. They followed first. And the cave, once a secret, became a promise.

Moral: What others mock in you may one day save them.

09/21/2025

The Sparrow’s Secret Song

In Udala, mornings belonged to loud things pestles thudding yam, roosters stitching pride across the sky, goats arguing over nothing. Yet before all that sound, a softer note held the village together like thread hidden inside cloth. It came from a small gray sparrow who lived in the broken rafters of the abandoned schoolhouse by the banana grove.

Her name was Anuli. She sang only at first light, and only to the dew. When she was a fledgling, she had tried to join the evening racket on the iroko. Parrot mocked her for not knowing seven languages. Hornbill laughed that her song could not bend trees. Even the rooster chuckled, chest proud as a drum. Anuli shrank back into straw and learned to pour her heart where pride was still asleep at dawn.

One harmattan, grief walked the village wearing many faces. A fever took a father. A long journey took a husband. A bad season took the maize. Izu, a young shepherd, woke early because sorrow keeps its own time. Wandering without aim, he reached the old schoolhouse. Through a hole in the roof he heard a thread of music so gentle that the dust paused to listen. It was Anuli, greeting the day with notes the size of raindrops. Izu leaned against the doorframe and didn’t wipe his tears; the song used them like river-light.

At sunrise he left a small gift millet on the sill. The next dawn he returned. Anuli, seeing a quiet that matched hers, sang again. Word traveled on the quick feet of gossip. By week’s end a potter, a widow, the old hunter with a stubborn knee, and two sleepy children stood outside, saying nothing, letting the song stitch their frayed places.

Jealousy arrived, late but loud. Parrot offered harmonies “fit for kings.” Hornbill suggested he drum under her, to “make the song respectable.” The drummer boy begged to lay a beat. Anuli thanked them and kept her notes small, because dawn is a fragile bowl and heavy hands break it.

One night, a storm swallowed the roof. Anuli tumbled through, wing bruised, song scattered. Izu lifted her gently and set her on the windowsill. “We’ll fix your stage,” he said. By noon the carpenter mended rafters, the potter patched cracks with clay, children swept chalk ghosts from the floor, and even the hunter climbed a ladder with nails between his teeth because some debts you pay with your body.

The next morning Anuli sang earlier than usual. Something in the village eased. The widow’s bread rose right. The hunter’s knee hurt less. The potter’s clay didn’t crack. People began timing quarrels around the song never starting one just before dawn and never finishing one without passing by the schoolhouse to rinse anger from their throats.

Then a traveling show came with bright masks and louder music. “We will teach your sparrow to sing properly,” they boomed, offering a stage and a cage disguised as a golden perch. The village turned to Izu. He looked at Anuli and said, “Our song is not a river to be captured in a jar. It is mist that blesses all and belongs to none.” The troupe left with their noise; the village kept its quiet wealth.

Years later, when babies were named, mothers brought them to the schoolhouse at dawn so Anuli’s notes could lay first on their ears. When elders died, the procession paused there to let grief breathe before finishing its climb to the hill. And when seasons were cruel, Anuli never tried to be thunder. She remained rain.

People still argue in Udala. Hunger still visits. But if you arrive at first light, you’ll see figures in the dim, not speaking, hands open at their sides as if catching something invisible. You’ll hear the pestles wait a heartbeat. Then the sparrow will begin, and you’ll understand why the village protects small things: they reach the cracks big things cannot.

Moral: Even the smallest voice can carry the heaviest comfort.

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