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The night was cool as Emil walked back from school, the folded copy of the letter still pressed inside his ledger. The scarred greenhouse, the mural, the solar lamp—all lingered in his mind. He and Priya had done it. They had sent their words out into the world, fragile as paper, bold as fire.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the air was warm with the smell of baked bread. Grandfather Tomas sat at the oak table, a book closed beside him, his posture calm as if waiting. Emil slid into the chair opposite him, his chest tight with a mixture of pride and uncertainty.

“We did something today,” Emil said at last. “Priya and I… we wrote to the UN. We told them about the Four Absences. We asked them to change how they act—to stop wars, to stop burning the world. Maybe they’ll listen. Or maybe…” His voice faltered. “Maybe they’ll laugh at us.”

Grandfather’s eyes softened, deep as still water. “So,” he murmured, “you’ve sent a letter to the nations. Good. Some will laugh. Some will ignore it. But remember, Emil—a seed does not need the whole world’s attention to sprout. It only needs soil, time, and God’s will. Letters are fragile things, but truth has a way of outlasting mockery.”

Emil looked down at the ledger in his hands. “But how do I know it mattered? What if it just disappears into silence?”

Grandfather leaned forward, his voice steady. “Do not measure its worth by whether the Security Council answers tomorrow. Measure it by this: you had the courage to write, and your words reflected justice and care. Nations rise and fall by their choices, but God has His ledger too. Perhaps one day, long after you, your letter will be read again—by someone who dares to listen.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the lamp’s glow warming the table between them. Emil’s thoughts turned, heavy but restless. Finally, he spoke again.

“Grandfather, the other day you spoke of the moral law that governs the rise and fall of nations. But… are there other laws? Laws that govern all of humanity? Because I keep wondering—why is it that some people, even when you show them the facts, even when you explain everything clearly, they still cling to their own opinion? Why can’t they see the truth?”

Grandfather’s gaze deepened, the question settling over him like a stone cast into a still pond. He let the silence stretch, thinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow, deliberate.

“You ask a deep thing, Emil. There is indeed a moral law of guidance and misguidance. Remember, this life is a test and trial. God has ingrained in every human soul the ability to distinguish truth from falsehood, right from wrong. It is part of our very nature. But as we grow and reach maturity, the environment we live in begins to shape us. Family, culture, politics, pride—these influences press upon the soul. If a person treasures the guidance within, if they use their intellect with sincerity, then light grows in them. But if they scorn it—if they silence conscience, refuse to reflect, and deliberately turn away—then they begin to wrong their own soul.”

He leaned back, his voice taking on the cadence of storytelling.

“Consider Pharaoh. God sent Moses to him because Pharaoh had truly transgressed all bounds. Pharaoh claimed divinity for himself—called himself the sun god—and enslaved the children of Israel. God armed Moses with signs: his staff turning into a serpent, his hand shining with light, the plagues, the proofs. Yet Pharaoh argued: ‘Who is your Lord, O Moses?’

Moses answered, ‘Our Lord is the One who gave everything its form, then guided it.’ Still Pharaoh pressed: ‘And what of the generations before you?’ Moses replied with clarity: ‘He is the One who laid out the earth, set pathways upon it, sends rain from the sky, and brings forth plants for you to eat and graze your cattle. From it you were created, into it you will return, and from it you will be raised again.’

Signs upon signs—yet Pharaoh refused. He dismissed Moses as a sorcerer and summoned his own magicians for a contest. But when they saw Moses’ staff swallow their illusions, they fell in prostration. ‘We believe in the Lord of Moses,’ they declared.

Pharaoh’s response was not humility, but rage. He threatened to mutilate and crucify them. Yet the magicians replied, ‘Do as you will. You only rule this fleeting life. We will never prefer you over the truth we have seen.’

Do you see, Emil? Pharaoh’s arrogance strangled his reasoning. He could no longer discern truth, even when it stood before him. But the magicians—who began in falsehood—used their reason honestly when confronted with undeniable proof. And in that moment, their intellect opened their hearts, and they submitted to truth.”

Grandfather paused, then added:

“And this law repeated itself in the time of Jesus. The leaders of Israel had seen the signs—his miracles of healing, his call to purity and truth, his proof that he was the Messiah promised in their own scriptures. Yet their hearts had been hardened by arrogance and corruption. They feared losing their authority more than they desired the truth. And so they committed the most heinous crime—they conspired to silence him, even to assassinate him.

Like Pharaoh, their reasoning had been consumed by pride. And like the magicians, some among the common people saw and believed, because their hearts were still open. But those in power—those who clung to arrogance—chose misguidance, and God left them to the darkness they embraced.”

Grandfather tapped the table softly, his voice dropping.

“It was the same with the pagan Arabs in the time of Prophet Muhammad. They were not ignorant of language or intelligence—they had poetry, trade, and traditions—but they refused the call to God’s oneness and the reality of the next life. Why? Because their pride and interest in idols, in inherited power, blinded their reasoning. They argued, yes, but not with knowledge. They argued to resist, not to understand.”

Grandfather’s voice softened, almost like a sigh. “That is why true dialogue is only possible when people agree on the foundation of knowledge. When reason is honest, disagreement can be dialogue. But when reason is corrupted by arrogance, it becomes nothing but noise—arguments without end, fights without purpose.”

Emil sat silent, his mind tracing the story from Pharaoh’s palace to the courts of Israel and then to the markets of Mecca, and finally back to his own small ledger on the table. At last he whispered, “So the real danger is not ignorance, but arrogance—when people stop reasoning altogether.”

Grandfather nodded gravely. “Yes, Emil. And when reasoning dies, so too does the light of guidance. That is the warning buried in Pharaoh’s defiance, in the rejection of Jesus, and in the arrogance of Quraysh. It is not history alone—it is the law of the human soul.”