The bread was still warm when they left the house.
Seven-year-old Steve carried the larger loaf.
Five-year-old Kynthos carried the smallest one — carefully, with both hands.
He kept checking it was still there.
"It will not run away," Grandfather said.
"I know," said Kynthos.
He checked again.
To reach the neighboring farm, they had to cross a shallow stream.
Grandfather took both loaves first, stepped from stone to stone without trouble, and set the bread safely on the far bank.
Steve hopped across after him.
Kynthos stepped out. Then slipped.
Splash!
He scrambled back to his feet — cold, wet, and gasping.
But his sandal was floating.
"No — no!"
He ran along the bank after it.
The current moved faster than his little legs.
The sandal tumbled around one rock.
Then another.
Then disappeared.
Kynthos sat on a stone.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were full.
"It's not fair!"
"I loved those sandals!"
"I don't want to walk home!"
Steve opened his mouth. "It's just a—"
Grandfather gently shook his head.
Instead he sat beside Kynthos on the stone.
He did not rush. He did not lecture.
He simply sat.
After a few minutes, he asked quietly:
"Can your tears bring it back?"
Kynthos wiped his face.
"No."
"Can your anger?"
"No."
"What can you still choose?"
Kynthos looked down at his bare foot.
"...I can keep walking."
"And?"
"...I can be careful with the next pair."
They stood up.
Grandfather gathered the bread again.
Steve looked at his brother. Then at his own sandals.
He knelt down and removed the right one.
"If we switch every few minutes..."
"...neither of us has to walk barefoot the whole way."
Grandfather smiled but said nothing.
Sometimes the lesson is learned without words.
That evening Steve scratched on his wax tablet.
Kynthos leaned over to look.
"Is that about me?"
"Sort of," Steve said. "You lost a sandal. But you didn't lose yourself."
Kynthos was quiet for a moment.
"I almost did."
