Kynthos and Steve were playing in the village square with round stones.
It was a quiet afternoon, and the sun cast long shadows across the cobbles.
An older boy from a wealthy family walked past. He stopped, looking down at Kynthos's patched tunic.
"Look at the ragged beggar," the older boy sneered. "Your clothes are made of scraps!"
He kicked over Kynthos's stones and walked away laughing.
Kynthos felt his face burn. His eyes welled with tears of embarrassment.
He balled his small hands into fists, his chest heaving. He wanted to yell back, to chase the boy and punch him.
Grandfather, who had been sitting nearby, stepped over and squatted down.
"Kynthos," Grandfather said calmly. "Do me a favor. Try to catch the wind in your hands."
Confused, Kynthos wiped his eyes. He reached out and grabbed at the air, but his hands came up empty.
"You see," Grandfather explained softly. "Cruel words are just like the wind. They are empty air."
"They only have the power to push you around if you build a sail to catch them."
Grandfather placed a warm hand on Kynthos's shoulder. "If you simply let them pass by, they can do you no harm."
Kynthos looked at his empty hands, then down at the stones.
He took a deep breath. He relaxed his fists, letting the boy's words blow past him like a breeze. Then, he sat back down with Steve to play again.
