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The morning light spilled softly through the kitchen window, brushing the table where Emil sat with the ledger closed beside him. Sleep had eased his mind, but Grandfather’s words from the night before still echoed: “The old order whispers in councils and capitals just as it does in boardrooms.” He fingered a small basil leaf in his pocket, plucked from the greenhouse, its faint scent grounding him as questions stirred within.

Grandfather poured tea into two mugs, his movements unhurried, the teapot’s steam curling like a quiet promise. He set a mug before Emil, his eyes—deep as ancient wells—reading the boy’s unspoken thoughts in the furrow of his brow.

“You carry new questions today,” Grandfather said, settling into his chair. “The greenhouse stands, but something heavier weighs on you. Speak, child.”

Emil’s fingers tightened around the warm mug, the basil leaf’s fragrance mingling with the tea’s earthy warmth. “Grandfather, one thing troubles me. You said last night that God governs our world by principle, letting choices ripen. But why does He bless some nations and not others? Why do some rise while others fall? If freedom is sacred, why doesn’t He stop the tyrants?”

Grandfather sipped his tea, the liquid dark and fragrant, his gaze steady as he considered the weight of Emil’s words. “Because, child, this world is made for test and trial. If God took away freedom, the test would end. He gives every people freedom—even tyrants. That’s why He does not stop them at once, but lets their choices ripen. Through history’s long turning, slavery of bodies was broken, but subtler chains remain. Powerful nations bind others with unseen hands of control. Old whips replaced by new shadows.”

He leaned back, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder promising rain but not storm. “You ask why some are blessed while others fall. There is no doubt—it is God alone who sets the measure of nations. The Qur’an reminds us: ‘For every nation is a term; when their time has come, they cannot delay it for a single hour, nor can they advance it’ (7:34). Blessing, power, and decline are never random, but unfold according to His timetable.

Yet if we look at history through the lens of civilizations, patterns emerge. A nation rises when it excels in knowledge and morality. By knowledge, I mean mastery of the earth’s gifts—science to harness resources, systems to govern justly, solutions to society’s trials. These weave their strength. By morality, I mean the heart of their people. Are they true in their dealings? Do they honor trust and contracts? Or do they build on lies, corroding from within? Knowledge without morality breeds arrogance; morality without knowledge leaves a people frail. But when both are tended, like roots and rain, a nation finds its blessing.”

Emil rested his chin on his hands, his brow furrowed. “So even the great nations—with their armies, and their wealth—they’re bound by time, by this measure of knowledge and morality?”

Grandfather nodded, a faint smile softening the lines of his face. “Yes. They rise, they strut, they bind others with the tools of their age. But when their term is reached, they fall. Rome had its time, the Ottomans theirs, the empires of Britain and beyond. Each thought itself permanent, until history reminded them otherwise.”

Emil’s fingers tightened around the basil leaf, its edges crumpling as his thoughts churned. “But Grandfather, what if a nation’s people want the dark? What if they choose lies over truth, leaders who deceive because it feels safer than facing the test? Like Marco’s whispers—some students believed him, even when we showed the ledger’s truth. How do you tend a garden when the soil itself rejects the light?”

Grandfather leaned back, his eyes twinkling with the weight of Emil’s question, as if it had struck a deep chord.

“Nations, like people, move through an aging process. Every human is born with a set time, certain abilities, and circumstances—some into wealth, others into poverty—and then passes through childhood, youth, adulthood, and old age, when memory fades, until finally death. In the same way, nations are raised up. God selects and elevates them on the world stage according to His established practice, and this cycle will continue until the Day of Judgment.”

He paused, his hand resting on the mug, eyes steady on Emil.

Grandfather (continued):
“But once a nation is elevated, it is the responsibility of its people to preserve that position. Decline begins when knowledge fades and morality weakens. From there, people may choose the dark—electing tyrants or clinging to lies that promise a false harbor. Yet remember, Emil, you cannot force a seed to sprout, nor a mirror to reflect what it refuses to see. Your task is not to conquer the unwilling, but to plant where the soil is ready. Show the light—through the Accord, through your actions—and those who are ready will turn toward it. As for the rest, their choices too will ripen, and the harvest will reveal them. But never stop tending, Emil, for even barren soil can soften with time.”

Emil exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders like water seeping into parched soil. “So we keep planting, even when the shadows choose the dark? Keep tending, even when the world resists?”

“Yes,” He said, his voice soft as the morning light. “The mirror doesn’t break the shadow—it passes the light through. Clean your heart, Emil. Polish it with patience, humility, the Accord’s care. The measure of nations, like the measure of your greenhouse, lies in what you choose to show.”

They drank their tea in companionable silence, the steam curling like quiet promises. Outside, the morning deepened, the sun lifted, and Emil felt the day’s weight shift. The questions had tested him, but in their asking, he glimpsed a reflection—flawed, yet growing brighter.

As grandfather cleared the mugs, he added one last thought, almost as an afterthought: “And Emil… the measure of nations is like the measure of your greenhouse. Guard its gate well, for fire tests the roots as surely as shadows test the heart.”

Emil nodded, the words lingering like a seed planted deep. He glanced out the window toward the greenhouse, its glass catching the early sun. For the first time, he saw its fragile beauty not only as a project of the Accord, but as a mirror of the world—alive, vulnerable, and destined to be tested by fire yet to come.