The last time I saw the sky full of stars, I was still mocking Noah. “Crazy carpenter,” I muttered as he passed my stall. I was the potter of the village, known for my sturdy water jars. Everyone came to me for their clay vessels—rich and poor alike. Even Noah, once, but not anymore. He’d stopped buying from me.
It all began the day he spoke of hearing God’s voice. God, he claimed, had told him to build a boat—a giant boat—right in the middle of dry land. At first, I thought it was a joke. “A flood?” I scoffed. “What flood? We live in dry lands. There’s not a drop of water for miles.” But Noah didn’t stop. Day after day, hammering, sawing, shaping wood. His sons dragged timbers too thick for any sensible mind to comprehend. The boat grew, towering over the land like some twisted monument to madness. And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.
The more Noah worked, the more we turned away. The boat, a ridiculous thing, seemed to mock us all. But Noah—his faith, his belief—never wavered. And still, I mocked him. I laughed. Then, one day, it started. A distant rumble, barely a whisper at first. Just another storm, we thought. But the wind didn’t stop. The sky darkened, clouds churning like an angry sea. And when the rain came, it didn’t fall like any rain I had ever seen. It fell in sheets, fierce and endless, the ground trembling beneath us.
I ran to higher ground, but the water rose too quickly. Too fast. Too unforgiving. Streets turned into rivers, houses sank beneath the tide. The noise was deafening—the crack of trees, the roar of water swallowing everything. People around me screamed, scrambled for shelter, but there was nowhere to go. The water kept rising. In that madness, I saw it—Noah’s ark, standing strong against the flood.
A dark, unwavering silhouette in the storm, untouched by the rising waters. I cursed him. Even then, even now. But the ark wasn’t just wood and nails. It was salvation. The flood came for us all, and I realized too late that Noah was right. His faith had saved him. His obedience had saved him. And I? I was swept away by the very water I had mocked, the flood I had dismissed as a foolish fantasy.
As the waters surged higher, there was no more time for mockery, no time for regret. The earth beneath me was consumed by the flood. My village, my home, my life—all of it was swallowed by the very thing I had laughed at. Noah’s ark remained. His family, safe within, untouched by the storm. I, along with everyone else, was lost.
The flood took us all. And in my final moments, as the water rose above me, I understood the truth. I had ignored it, laughed at it, scorned it. But the truth had never wavered. The ark was not just a boat. It was a promise. And I had turned my back on that promise. And as the last breath left my body, there was nothing but silence.
The ark sailed on, and I, along with everything I once knew, was gone. Forgotten.
The last time I saw the sky full of stars, I was still mocking Noah. “Crazy carpenter,” I muttered as he passed my stall. I was the potter of the village, known for my sturdy water jars. Everyone came to me for their clay vessels—rich and poor alike. Even Noah, once, but not anymore. He’d stopped buying from me.
It all began the day he spoke of hearing God’s voice. God, he claimed, had told him to build a boat—a giant boat—right in the middle of dry land. At first, I thought it was a joke. “A flood?” I scoffed. “What flood? We live in dry lands. There’s not a drop of water for miles.” But Noah didn’t stop. Day after day, hammering, sawing, shaping wood. His sons dragged timbers too thick for any sensible mind to comprehend. The boat grew, towering over the land like some twisted monument to madness. And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.
The more Noah worked, the more we turned away. The boat, a ridiculous thing, seemed to mock us all. But Noah—his faith, his belief—never wavered. And still, I mocked him. I laughed. Then, one day, it started. A distant rumble, barely a whisper at first. Just another storm, we thought. But the wind didn’t stop. The sky darkened, clouds churning like an angry sea. And when the rain came, it didn’t fall like any rain I had ever seen. It fell in sheets, fierce and endless, the ground trembling beneath us.
I ran to higher ground, but the water rose too quickly. Too fast. Too unforgiving. Streets turned into rivers, houses sank beneath the tide. The noise was deafening—the crack of trees, the roar of water swallowing everything. People around me screamed, scrambled for shelter, but there was nowhere to go. The water kept rising. In that madness, I saw it—Noah’s ark, standing strong against the flood.
A dark, unwavering silhouette in the storm, untouched by the rising waters. I cursed him. Even then, even now. But the ark wasn’t just wood and nails. It was salvation. The flood came for us all, and I realized too late that Noah was right. His faith had saved him. His obedience had saved him. And I? I was swept away by the very water I had mocked, the flood I had dismissed as a foolish fantasy.
As the waters surged higher, there was no more time for mockery, no time for regret. The earth beneath me was consumed by the flood. My village, my home, my life—all of it was swallowed by the very thing I had laughed at. Noah’s ark remained. His family, safe within, untouched by the storm. I, along with everyone else, was lost.
The flood took us all. And in my final moments, as the water rose above me, I understood the truth. I had ignored it, laughed at it, scorned it. But the truth had never wavered. The ark was not just a boat. It was a promise. And I had turned my back on that promise. And as the last breath left my body, there was nothing but silence.
The ark sailed on, and I, along with everything I once knew, was gone. Forgotten.
