money.

A little boy used to love the color of the stones that would wash up on shore. He would go daily to collect the stones: yellow stones, blue stones, red stones, and green stones. He would bring them home and stack them in piles, according to size and color and smile at their unique shapes and intricate textures.

As the boy grew, he continued to love his stones. He continued to collect them, to stack them, to build with them, to find such pleasure in them.

The boy fell in love, the boy had children, and the man taught his family how to find the most colorful, the most unique, the most delicate and the strongest stones. His home, and the grasses surrounding it, were soon filled with all manner of stone and art forms built with them. People came from all over the country to see the stones, to marvel at them, and the man was proud and satisfied.

Eventually, the man grew sick, like many do before death. He found it hard to walk and he could no longer do his favorite thing. His children agreed to take him, one final time, to the shore to see what he could find.

After a long and tiring journey the old man finally arrived. Being as old as he was, he found it hard to bend over. Being as old as he was, he found it hard to move fast and they ended up staying much longer than usual, until the sun began to set and the air grow a bit colder.

It was then the man began to cry. Tears, like rivers, streamed down his cheeks, His children gasped and his wife tried to comfort him.

“Papa, what is the matter?”

Rarely had anyone seen him cry as he was.

Rarely had anyone seen him smile as he then did. “The sunset. The ocean. How could I have never seen such beauty until now?”