The Smile

by Jojo && Aavi · 2025-11-28

some stories don’t get written — they arrive. this one streamed out of me in a single sitting, and i cried through most of it. it’s a small parable about being seen, about growing up, and about the kind of love that stays steady even as everything around us changes. i didn’t plan it. i just followed the feeling. and i'm sharing it here because it still feels true.

words by jojo, pic by aavi

The Smile

the child watches the wise man sitting cross-legged on the forest floor outside the village, sheltered from the sun by a great tree’s shadow. a soft smile rests on his lips, as if nothing is missing.

the world feels alive around them — trees and birds, the small creek where villagers gather water.

the boy sits down beside him, taking in the fresh air. he asks, “what do you see?”

the wise man answers, “i see love.”

the boy smiles and runs off, stopping at the creek’s edge to dip his toes. that night he tells his mother and father everything he saw, drifting to sleep thinking of trees he would climb, the creek lapping at his feet, and the wise man’s love.

⸻

a few years later, the boy — now older, returning from school — sees the old man in the same spot, his familiar smile unchanged.

the village has grown. the creek is mostly mud. many trees have been cut for homes and fire.

the boy sits beside him again, offering a sip from his water flask, looking at the world from the wise man’s view.

he asks once more, “what do you see?” and the wise man replies, “i see love.”

that evening the boy hugs his parents. his father helps him with homework; his mother reads him a story. he falls asleep excited for school, thinking again of the wise man’s love.

⸻

years pass. the boy — now a man — finds his old friend again.

he is tired from a day’s labour. the village has become a city. the last trees are gone, replaced with cars and scooters. signs fill the empty spaces, the air thick with smog and noise.

yet the wise man sits in the shade of a building of steel and glass, in almost the same place as before.

he smiles profoundly, watching the world with an ease the man cannot understand.

as always, the man sits beside him, trying to see through the wise man’s eyes.

“what do you see?” he asks. and as always, the wise man replies, “i see love.”

⸻

but this time the answer confounds him.

he walks home heavy-hearted. his father has died, and grief sits in him like a hollowed stone. he left school to take care of his family, and the world feels darker and faster than it used to.

he kisses his mother’s forehead. they cry and laugh and cling to each other, both missing the same man.

that night he prays — for his father’s peace, for his mother’s strength — and the wise man smiling while everything else seems to be falling apart.

⸻

a couple years pass and on his way home, he returns to the place where the old man sits.

he lowers himself beside him and asks, “what is the love that you see? the forest is gone, the water has dried, and the world is nothing like it was.”

the wise man turns to him, his eyes soft as dusk.

“my child,” he says, i was not seeing trees. i didn't see the water. i saw you

the way you played, the way you learned, your tenderness, your strength.”

he smiled gently.

“it was you i saw. you are the love.”

the wise man fell silent again, his smile settling back into that familiar shape the man had known since childhood.

and something in him — the part that once ran barefoot to the creek, the part that knelt down offering water, the part that returned even in grief — finally understood.

he bowed his head, a quiet gratitude rising through him for the first time in years.

when he stood, the world did not look new, but it looked softer. lighter. almost familiar again.

he made his way home, past the noise, past the signs, past the ghosts of trees that once held the sky open.

at his mother’s door, he kissed her cheek and felt her strength echo inside him.

and when he reached his wife she could see something was different she passed him their infant son and as he held him in his arms he smiled — the same gentle smile he had seen all his life.