We might be many things but,

we are all a reflection of the darkness the world possesses.

Everyone dealing with their lot,

and a great number learning their lessons.

We might seem of lesser worth next to greater works,

with only so much we could do.

But with some sincere acts and uplifting words,

we could make the art of living a little more bearable.

                                                                                       ***

I do not intend to brag as I say this, but I am the first and only embodiment of a concept conceived of long ago but have failed to be actualized to a reality.

A figment of an original imagination copied many times over; Once I was nothing but a mere wish by many, with the desire for the medium I travel by to turn back.

By now, if you are of average wits, it is likely you have figured out what I'm all about. If not, well...

Once again, it is not my intention to boast but you could call me a special time traveler. You may ask why but take it that I'm just a little different from the preconceived version you have of me.

The thing is, I do not come from a specific timeline and no, I most definitely do not alter past events and disturb your cliché space-time continuum. I also do not stick my nose into the businesses of the future; I think it should remain a mystery. 

'What makes me a time traveler then?' You may wonder. Well, I'm just a humble observer, not caught by the eye, reminiscing on acts of kindness, great or small, shown throughout history.

                                                                                              ***

Alas! The Michael Angelo and Davinci era! A time period that marked the rebirth of classical art, philosophy and literature after The Medieval--The Renaissance. Spanning between the 14th and 17th century, it was a wonderful time of flourishing beauty as well as creativity and curiosity. A time when some new continents were not just discovered but explored! That, coupled with the growth of commerce, it was an awakening period to live in.

A certain Matteo Lorenzo subsisted during this era; a middle-aged, Italian native of humble background and an even more modest lifestyle. Passing by his shop, no one failed to notice the experience his fingers showed as he painstakingly converted fiber into fabric; his sole means of livelihood housed by a dilapidated shed.

Every day, his shop sold well and his handiwork blessed with numerous praises as the likes of carpet rugs, weaved clothing materials and baskets were bought by satisfied customers. Although his craft had considerable patronage, weaving could make one only so rich. Yet by his ever-satisfied demeanor and zeal to work each day, Matteo was content.

It would not be far-fetched to say it was an epoch-making day for Matteo as he came back home from work after a long day. He had run out of weaving materials and the only cause on his mind was to find some leftovers. A search of no avail had ticked him off a bit till it bloomed into curiosity when an aged, small bag caught his eye. Like a vulture keen to feast on carcass, he frantically ransacked the bag having no mercy on its seemingly delicate parts. No, he did not find any leftover weaving materials, instead, an item on sheer serendipity found home in his grasp. 

Like a whiplash, bittersweet memories came flooding through his mind; memories related to the old, slightly disheveled, dusty storybook of few leaves. Oh, how the story had brought him so much pleasure and peace. How it seemed to have a new meaning each time his mother read to him before bedtime. Lorenzo found it hard to believe that he had forgotten such a gem still existed; one that had impacted his childhood immensely and was brought to life by the only family he had known apart from his uncle.

Matteo began to hear pain-filled moans but it took moments for him to realize they escaped from his very lips. His shoulders began to quake fervently, hands trembling, while the book lay limply in his rough palms. In no time, his cheeks became inundated with tears with a nose that suddenly had legs to run.

Oh no, it wasn't the sight of the book that saddened him, it was the fact that he was illiterate and his mother had passed on before she could fully teach him how to read, and after her tragic death, learning the skill became the least of his priorities.

He squinted his eyes, bringing the book so close to his face that the surrounding background blurred out from his vision. He tried to make out the title of the book, but the symbols looked like gibberish, muttering the incorrigible at best. When he came to terms with his failed attempt, he flipped frantically through the dog-eared pages hoping there would be something... anything he would grasp, but that too, was futile.

The storybook to him was now the only other valuable thing left of his mother apart from her scarf, which he still kept. She had died a tragic one, one that shouldn't have been. He grimaced, shutting his eyes so hard as though a finger was about to poke them. God forbid he recalled the details of her death!

                                                                                           ***

Matteo, although reluctantly, had to let go of a good chunk of his savings to procure his much-needed materials. His day at the shop went well as usual, and when he had some free time with no patronage, he attempted reading the book once more.

It was a bitter pill to swallow though, realizing that upon several trials, he still could not make out a single word. Lorenzo could not help but feel the slightest shame for himself, but still, he remembered to be gentle. After all, he had gone through a traumatic experience at a tender age with his reading skills unfledged. Also, his advancing age did not at all help matters.

Se non è il mio tessitore preferito! (If it isn't my favorite weaver!). The animated voice jolted Matteo out of his reverie. The startled look on his face was replaced with a gentle fondness when his strained pair of eyes met bright, anticipating ones. Tomasso was his favorite and most loyal customer; A thriving merchant of upper middle class who was able to afford his little boy who had accompanied him, an education at one of the best schools in the area. The two friends embraced each other in a warm hug and then proceeded to do business.

Matteo, though, could not help but notice how Tomasso's young lad, Nicholas, had significantly grown since the last he saw him. His friend, as though he had read his mind, concurred with him as he pointed out his son's increase in height. Nicholas was a bright young boy of age twelve, but a tough one to mold as he would much rather live by his own terms; the reason to which he had accompanied his father to Lorenzo's shop.

"My boy has been all too naughty," Tomasso stressed while he shook his head in mock-disappointment. "He is supposed to partake in a calcio match  this afternoon, but he has been too stubborn, I won't let him play!"

"Oh, I see," Matteo let out, a little perplexed, wondering what he was supposed to do with the information.

"I am handing him over to you, throughout this afternoon, till the sight of dusk as punishment." Tomasso concluded with finality in his tone. The crease on Nicholas' forehead became more prominent.

"Oh, I see," Matteo let out once more; the best he could do as he was a man of few words.

In no time, Tomasso left with his purchased items leaving his grumpy son in Matteo's care. 

The ambience afterwards was not a far-cry from that of a graveyard, with a petulant Nicholas and a contemplating Matteo, who was thinking of the best way to engage in a light conversation. 

"I heard you came top three in your class...Congratulations!" Matteo drawled with a lop-sided grin filled with awkwardness. Nicholas remained silent, with arms firmly folded and a frown marring his face.

"Feel comfortable, eh? Your papa would want that." Matteo assured but Nicholas scoffed. He knew that if he's father really wanted him to be comfortable, he wouldn't even be at the shop, it was 'punishment' after all.

Matteo took one last empathetic glance at the boy and resorted back to the book, his hands trembled a little because he anticipated another wave of failure, but he did not let that stop him.

The storybook caught Nicholas' eye and being the curious cat he was, he almost asked what the book was about, but he hesitated. After all, he had not been the nicest to Matteo who was only trying to engage with him, he felt he would be paid back in his own coins.

"What's wrong?" Matteo inquired, noticing the lad's sudden restlessness. Nicholas gave no answer, instead, he focused his eyes on the title of the book, hoping Matteo would understand the signal.

Matteo smiled, of course a child of his kind would be interested in literature. "You can have it," he stretched out his hand to Nicholas.

"The boy and the rain," Nicholas muttered softly and Matteo was filled with a sudden wave of nostalgia! A feeling so blissful yet painful.

"Could. You. Read. It. Through?" Matteo picked out each word as though he was picking grain from sand. Nicholas nodded in reply and proceeded to do just so. Why didn't he think of this before? He thought. A brilliant child with him, who could read so fluently, he wondered why he hadn't asked him since. But then, Matteo concluded that he may have underrated his level of independence. His life experiences had left him no choice but to sail alone at a very tender age, solving his own problems and carving a path for himself.

As words started to flow from Nicholas' mouth, a tsunami of nostalgia engulfed Matteo, his ecstasy growing after each word.

Clarity was Nicholas as he enunciated each word clearly and brought the story to life, almost as well as Matteo's mother.

It was a captivating story filled with realness and depth; a symbolic story in which 'The rain' depicted a series of challenges the protagonist faced which were in the likelihood of a rainfall. The boy's problem had started off small, just like rain would often start in drizzles, and then they progressively surged into torrents of rain as it were. Just like one would be drenched in a heavy downpour, so also was the boy soaked in his problems. But as life would have it, the boy found a fortress away from the rain, a resting place, where he was relieved from his drenched state. And so just like a heavy rainfall provided the best weather for sleep, so also did the boy later find peace and serenity when he found his fortress, and the rain had ceased.

"Yes!" Matteo exclaimed when Nicholas was through, tears welling up in his eyes.

"It's a beautiful story," Nicholas affirmed, caressing the last leaf. "It seems to be rich in meaning, where did you buy it?"

Matteo hadn't heard the question as he pondered on the buried memory that Nicholas' had just dug up. At this time, he's eyes became bloodshot, and trickles of tears started running down his face. He closed his eyes tight and turned away from Nicholas. The boy wasn't fooled though, he noticed Matteo was crying.

"Sir, why are you crying?" Nicholas asked, concern etched to his tone.

The question left Matteo creasing his forehead in contemplation. He didn't have to say anything in reply. He didn't have to tell the boy about his weakness, and how the story was linked to a traumatic loss in his life. But wouldn't have denying it as 'nothing' been a lie? True, the boy need not know, but Matteo was not concerned about probable judgement from a lad, and sincerely, he wanted to talk about his problems; he needed a listening ear.

Matteo, although with a slight hesitation, thoroughly narrated his whole encounter with the book, its significance, the tragedy associated with it, and how it brought attention to a weakness he had.  Nicholas listened obsequiously, empathy growing in his heart. Rarely would a child of his age possess such emotional intelligence! It was evident that his brilliance surpassed academics alone. Nicholas was aware that he came from a different background from Matteo's and his circumstances, more favorable. He realized that he came from a privilege that Matteo unfortunately did not have.

Nicholas proceeded to embrace Matteo in a long warm hug and hitherto, Matteo did not realize how much he needed one from a place of understanding. He let out a laugh, more like a grunt, but it wasn't painfilled, it was rather filled with appreciation. 

"Thank you, child." Matteo said in sincere gratitude and the two smiled warmly at each other.

Dusk showed it face rather rudely and Tomasso was back to pick up his son, he waved his friend good-bye, but Nicholas lingered, hesitant on leaving. He took one last look at his new friend, a warm smile dancing on his lips before he waved him good-bye and went along with his father.

Tomasso didn't speak to his son while he rode the wagon, he didn't ask him how his stay with Matteo was. He was still a little angry with him, and to him, absence of engagement was another form of punishment. Nicholas was aware of this, he felt guilty for his actions, and he knew he deserved any form of punishment he was getting.

"Papa..." Nicholas called nervously. "Could I visit Sir Matteo on the weekends?"

A perplexed look marred Tomasso's face upon his son's request. "Why?"

"I have found a friend in Sir Matteo," Nicholas deadpanned and Tomasso smiled.

"I guess that is alright, I knew Lorenzo would be good for you," Tomasso affirmed with pride. "But do not cause him any trouble," he warned.

"I won't, Papa." Nicholas replied, though the weight of his promise felt heavier than his words.

And so it went, from noon to dusk, every weekend, with Nicholas patiently teaching Matteo how to read. 

Mere words could not express just how grateful Matteo was for the gift that was Nicholas!