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A soft wind rustled through the olive trees in the courtyard as the golden light of late afternoon cast long shadows on the stone path. Emil sat cross-legged beneath the fig tree, a thoughtful crease in his brow and a question resting heavily on his lips.

He looked up at Grandfather, who was trimming the branches nearby. “Grandfather,” he asked quietly, “if God wants us to be good… why did He even give us the ability to go wrong? Why not just make us like the angels—always grateful, never arrogant, incapable of hurting anyone?”

Grandfather paused, lowering his shears. He looked at Emil with a steady gaze, then walked over and sat beside him. “Do you remember our conversation about the starving child?” he asked.

Emil nodded. “Yes. You said the test isn’t for the one starving—but for the one with bread who walks past them.”

“Exactly,” Grandfather said. “Now imagine if God removed our ability to choose—to ignore, to neglect, even to be cruel. What would remain of the test?”

Emil thought for a moment.

“Choice,” Grandfather continued, “is what makes virtue real. Gratitude only shines when you could have been ungrateful. Kindness is meaningful only when you had the power to be harsh. Justice matters because oppression is an option. Without the capacity to deviate, goodness is not chosen—it’s programmed.”

Emil leaned back against the tree. “So… it’s not just about avoiding failure. It’s about having the freedom to choose the right thing—even when it’s hard?”

“Yes,” Grandfather nodded. “This life isn’t a game of perfection—it’s a journey of refinement. The soul is like a blade sharpened on the edge of possibility. Every blessing—health, wealth, status, beauty, knowledge—is like a double-edged gift. It is not truly a test until it tempts you toward pride, or greed, or indifference.”

He picked up a stone and turned it in his hand. “Power only reveals who we are when it has the potential to corrupt. Bread becomes a test only when you could hoard it or share it. That razor’s edge between divine gift and human distortion… that’s where souls are refined.”

Emil stared at the stone. “So we’re not being set up to fail—we’re being given a chance to rise?”

Grandfather smiled. “Exactly. If God had created a world where failure was impossible, then nobility, mercy, courage—they would all be meaningless. What makes you human, Emil, is not that you’re always right—but that you are always free. Free to become.”

The sun dipped lower behind the trees, and a deep peace settled over the courtyard.

Emil whispered, “And that freedom… is the greatest trust of all.”

Grandfather nodded solemnly. “It is. And how we carry it will echo far beyond this life.”

As the sun fell behind the olive trees, Emil finally picked up his pen.

This time, he had something worth writing.