The painter worked quietly, dipping his brush into the last of his traditional ink. Each stroke was careful and respectful, as if he knew the ink was precious. When he reached for more, his hand met only empty jars.
His friend, trying to help, had taken some of the ink to sell. What was meant to be support became loss. The painter stood frozen, frustrated, tired, and hurt, staring at what remained.
The jars felt it too. The first jar threw its arms into the air, shocked and angry that it had been drained without permission. The second jar stood with arms akimbo, fed up and silently judging the situation. The third jar clenched its teeth, grinding in frustration, knowing how long it took to make that ink.
These jars were not just containers. They held time, labour, and tradition. Now they were empty, and angry.
The painter realised that tradition cannot be rushed, borrowed, or sold carelessly. Ink, like trust, must be respected.