The Hearth

A message arrives asking for coin.

The king reads it and feels the old pressure:
prove you care by giving what you don’t have.

But he is a father now.
His stores belong to his sons;
bread, shelter, and the quiet reserves
that keep the future from collapsing.

And he’s learned something else:

One person is not a village.

If you build your peace on a single visitor,
you will start resenting them
for being human.

He learned it the hard way,
getting too bright at the thought of someone coming by,
If they don't come,
Resentment tries to move in,
soft-footed, pretending it belonged.

So he built a hearth instead.

Invite several.
Make the night larger than one person’s yes.
Let the room hold the need.

Community isn’t a transaction.
It’s contribution—
time, listening, showing up, gathering.

A circle can carry people.

But it cannot carry someone
who only arrives when they want to be carried.

So the king keeps his stores,
and tends the hearth,
and learns the difference
between being alone
and being unsupported.