Mustafa was a man of few words, but his hands told stories of resilience. He had lived through seasons of drought and years of plenty, always with a steady gaze toward the horizon.
From that day on, Ali understood. The flag wasn't a burden to be carried, but a legacy to be guarded—a promise that as long as one person held on, the spirit of the people would never fall.
"Grandfather," Ali asked, watching the rhythmic movement of the cloth, "why do you care for it so much? It’s just a piece of metal."
Ali rushed out into the rain. He didn't ask questions. He simply stepped beside Mustafa and gripped the pole with his small, firm hands. Together, they stood against the invisible force of the sky.
Mustafa paused, his eyes reflecting the deep crimson of the flag folded neatly on the wooden table beside them. "It’s not just metal, Ali. It’s the spine of our home. As long as this pole stands and that silk flies, we are never truly lost."