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In the heart of an old mountain village, where clouds kissed the peaks and rivers carved paths through ancient stone, a girl named Laila was known for asking questions that startled even the wisest elders.

One crisp morning, after a night of heavy rain, she sat by the riverside with her uncle Tariq, a quiet man who carved wood and rarely spoke unless asked. Today, the river rushed loudly beside them, swollen with the storm’s gift. Foam bubbled on the surface, dancing wildly as it surged past.

“Uncle,” Laila said, watching the froth swirl and vanish, “why does the water carry so much foam after the rain?”

Tariq smiled and touched the surface with a carved stick. “That foam, my dear, is just noise. It looks busy, even impressive—but it offers nothing. Soon it will vanish. But beneath it, the pure water flows quietly. That’s what we drink. That’s what nourishes crops and gives life.”

He paused. “It’s the same with people. Some make noise, seek attention, flash like lightning—but they leave nothing behind. Others—calm, consistent—keep the world going. Like this river, it’s not the froth that matters, but the flow.”

Laila nodded slowly, but her eyes wandered toward the ocean far beyond the hills.

“And the sea?” she asked. “With all its crashing waves?”

Tariq’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the sea teaches us, too. People marvel at waves crashing against rocks. But it’s the gentle, unseen currents underneath that carry nutrients, guide fish, and shape the world. Just like in life—those who quietly serve, who contribute without shouting—they’re the ones who sustain the community.”

He handed her a small wooden bee he had carved.

“Even the bees understand this,” he said. “The worker bee gathers nectar and makes honey. It may not be grand, but without it, the hive dies. The drones—those who do nothing—are eventually cast out. Not from cruelty, but necessity.”

Laila held the little bee in her hand. “So… the world only keeps what it needs?”

“No,” Tariq said softly, “the world keeps what gives. A star is not remembered for simply existing, but for how it shines. In the night sky, we look up because we need light—not silence. Even in darkness, those who shine help others find their way.”

He stood and dusted off his robe. “Flour is not food until it’s baked. Soil is not fertile until it feeds something else. Your value, Laila, is not in what you appear to be—but in how you help others grow.”

The river, still churning, had begun to clear. The foam thinned. The true current revealed itself beneath the surface.

And Laila—still young, still learning—began to see the world differently:

She no longer wished to crash like a wave or flicker like a flame.

She wanted to sustain.

To nourish.

To shine, not for praise, but for purpose.

And from that day forward, she often asked herself not,

“Will they see me?”

but rather,

“Will they benefit from what I leave behind?”