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I once lived in a village where a man named Jorun kept the finest rice fields for miles. His granaries were full, his house large, his tools polished like temple bells. He was not cruel, but he clutched tightly to all he owned - his land, his coins, even his kindness. One summer, the rains failed. The fields cracked. People grew thin. Many came to Jorun, not to beg, but to ask if he would share just a little seed to plant when the earth softened again. He said no, fearing he would lose what he had gathered. That winter, children died in their sleep, and mothers wailed into their empty hands. Jorun's granary stayed locked, and though he fed himself well, he could not eat without hearing the silence outside. When spring came, his seed was spoiled by rot. No crops grew. No neighbors remained. I remember standing beside him as he wept before his fields, now lifeless and bare. Possession had not only taken his harvest - it had taken his heart. | |