“I’ll lose everything.”
He said it aloud though no one was in the house yet—not the landlord, not the master’s men. Just the echo of water dripping from the cracked basin and that crusted ledger open on the table like a wound.
Elias stared at it. Every page told the same story: missed payments, inflated charges, split coin purses. He hadn’t invented the game. He’d simply learned to play it well.
And badly.
Word had come before morning that his master—wealthy, impatient, God-fearing in name—had discovered the irregularities. The summons would follow. Judgment, after that.
He dipped the pen, then paused mid-air. What was left? He couldn’t dig. Too soft. Beg? He’d die before kneeling in dust. But there were names in the ledger—real people beneath crooked sums. Perhaps they, too, feared the word debt like a curse. Perhaps they’d answer if he knocked.
He left before the ink dripped.
—
The olive farmer smelled of sweat and goat’s milk. “How much do I owe?”
“One hundred measures of oil,” Elias said, too fast—and then, softer, “Write fifty.”
The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “What is this?”
“Call it mercy,” Elias said. “Write it. Quick.”
He walked fast between homes tucked into slopes, past women pulling water and boys chasing stolen figs. The sky bore down, thick with heat that could crack a man’s resolve.
At the wheat trader’s home, a similar story: “Write eighty. Not a hundred.” Confusion, then hope in the man’s eyes. No one refused.
Door by door, he cut the debts, each number chiseled into his conscience.
It wasn’t honesty. Not exactly. It wasn’t goodness. But it bought him something.
Maybe not favor with the master—he doubted that would be spared. But with the debtors? Maybe a place to sleep when the house was stripped. Maybe bread not born of scandal. A future built on reduced injustice.
He didn’t call it repentance. Didn’t know if he could.
—
By dusk, news had outrun his feet. The master was waiting.
The room was still. Servants stood back, curious, tense.
Elias entered, dirt on his hands, sweat like confession on his shirt.
The master stared long, then—unexpectedly—laughed. “You’re a thief,” he said, not kindly. “But for once, a wise one.”
Elias said nothing.
“You knew the house was burning, so you made yourself a door. I’ll lose coin. But you…” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve bought friends with mine. And I can’t deny it—there’s more sense in that than most righteous men I know.”
Silence stretched.
“Go,” the master said at last. “You’re done here.”
Elias didn’t protest. Just bowed once, low, and left with the same ledger under his arm and far less weight on his spine.
—
A week passed. Then two.
He slept sparingly, worked where he could—quiet fields, unfamiliar vineyards, tending what wasn’t his. Never tried to reclaim what had been.
One evening, on a shaded hill above the town, he saw the Teacher. The one they whispered about in alleyways and temple porticoes.
Elias stood in the back. The Teacher’s eyes traced the crowd like a sower might scan a field not yet his—and for a breathless second, paused on him.
“Whoever is faithful in little,” the Teacher said, voice sure, “will be faithful in much. And if you have not been trustworthy with someone else’s possessions, who will give you riches of your own?”
No one else flinched. But Elias did.
He looked down at his hands—still rough—and remembered the ink stains, the lies, the low ceiling of the master’s storehouse. And something pulled loose inside.
Not guilt. Not shame.
Hunger.
That night, he lit no lamp. Just placed the ledger—finally blank—beneath his head, and slept outside beneath stars he did not try to name.
“I’ll lose everything.”
He said it aloud though no one was in the house yet—not the landlord, not the master’s men. Just the echo of water dripping from the cracked basin and that crusted ledger open on the table like a wound.
Elias stared at it. Every page told the same story: missed payments, inflated charges, split coin purses. He hadn’t invented the game. He’d simply learned to play it well.
And badly.
Word had come before morning that his master—wealthy, impatient, God-fearing in name—had discovered the irregularities. The summons would follow. Judgment, after that.
He dipped the pen, then paused mid-air. What was left? He couldn’t dig. Too soft. Beg? He’d die before kneeling in dust. But there were names in the ledger—real people beneath crooked sums. Perhaps they, too, feared the word debt like a curse. Perhaps they’d answer if he knocked.
He left before the ink dripped.
—
The olive farmer smelled of sweat and goat’s milk. “How much do I owe?”
“One hundred measures of oil,” Elias said, too fast—and then, softer, “Write fifty.”
The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “What is this?”
“Call it mercy,” Elias said. “Write it. Quick.”
He walked fast between homes tucked into slopes, past women pulling water and boys chasing stolen figs. The sky bore down, thick with heat that could crack a man’s resolve.
At the wheat trader’s home, a similar story: “Write eighty. Not a hundred.” Confusion, then hope in the man’s eyes. No one refused.
Door by door, he cut the debts, each number chiseled into his conscience.
It wasn’t honesty. Not exactly. It wasn’t goodness. But it bought him something.
Maybe not favor with the master—he doubted that would be spared. But with the debtors? Maybe a place to sleep when the house was stripped. Maybe bread not born of scandal. A future built on reduced injustice.
He didn’t call it repentance. Didn’t know if he could.
—
By dusk, news had outrun his feet. The master was waiting.
The room was still. Servants stood back, curious, tense.
Elias entered, dirt on his hands, sweat like confession on his shirt.
The master stared long, then—unexpectedly—laughed. “You’re a thief,” he said, not kindly. “But for once, a wise one.”
Elias said nothing.
“You knew the house was burning, so you made yourself a door. I’ll lose coin. But you…” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve bought friends with mine. And I can’t deny it—there’s more sense in that than most righteous men I know.”
Silence stretched.
“Go,” the master said at last. “You’re done here.”
Elias didn’t protest. Just bowed once, low, and left with the same ledger under his arm and far less weight on his spine.
—
A week passed. Then two.
He slept sparingly, worked where he could—quiet fields, unfamiliar vineyards, tending what wasn’t his. Never tried to reclaim what had been.
One evening, on a shaded hill above the town, he saw the Teacher. The one they whispered about in alleyways and temple porticoes.
Elias stood in the back. The Teacher’s eyes traced the crowd like a sower might scan a field not yet his—and for a breathless second, paused on him.
“Whoever is faithful in little,” the Teacher said, voice sure, “will be faithful in much. And if you have not been trustworthy with someone else’s possessions, who will give you riches of your own?”
No one else flinched. But Elias did.
He looked down at his hands—still rough—and remembered the ink stains, the lies, the low ceiling of the master’s storehouse. And something pulled loose inside.
Not guilt. Not shame.
Hunger.
That night, he lit no lamp. Just placed the ledger—finally blank—beneath his head, and slept outside beneath stars he did not try to name.
