Man in his tiny shop with the air heavy with the smell of wooden shavings, with his hands molding wooden figures of his parents, carving their faces with love.
For four years, he whittled, unswerving in his tools, unblinking, not a line out of place, not a trace of an expression left unperfect, his mother with her modest smile and his father with his kindly eyes.
The town liked the work; I heard it shouted that day at the local fair when smooth and glossy Herself, the statue, came out.
“Lovely tribute,” said a neighbor, her voice warm. He smiled; his heart was full, and yet his eyes had a dark secret none knew.
As he talked about his parents, he had a softer voice. He says, “They loved me and accounted for me; I miss them daily.”
The town turned quiet, and their hearts melted with the assumption that his parents had died of sickness a long time ago.
They were good people who assisted the neighbors, and their tiny house resounded with laughter.
The baker patted his shoulder and said, “Because they honor you.” The man smiled with bashfulness and brushed his hands over the statues.
Why are they so real? “I touched the wood with some puzzlement,” said one of the children.
He smiled, just good carving, but his heart beat, and his secret was heavy, and the trouble was well down in the hollow wood.
The man gifted the town with the statues, which stood in the square, their faces realistic, and so crowds gathered everywhere.
People would leave flowers, which had their notes on them saying how much they loved him. An old woman’s eyes were wet.
She said, “Your parents would be proud.” He thanked her, and when he spoke, his voice was steady, but at night in his lonely hours, he sat by the statues, and his hands shook.
What have I done? His heart is torn between pride and guilt, but his heart answers, “I have given my lady honor.”
A beautiful boy grew up in the town as a beloved son, but there was a darker secret left in the forest to be discovered.
Years went by, and the statues were a treasure of the town when a carpenter recognized something strange.
The statue of the mother was made out of wood, he told us; it was hollow, he tapped at it, and there was a sort of echo.
Interested, he called those in charge of law and order, in a doubtful tone of voice, saying, “It is queer; there is something in it.”
Certain officers arrived whose implements are delicate, and when they so opened the statues, the town gasped and their hearts broke.
Its insides had human remains inside, skeletons of his parents that were hidden over the years.
“Why,” says a neighbor with tears, “how could he?” The man lost his smile, his secret was gone, and his world was falling apart under the eyes of a shocked town.
The police went to investigate; grim faces and forensic tests confirmed that it was his parents.
An officer said, in a low voice, as we all sat aghast, ‘It was in their home years back; he took their lives.’
The town was reeling, and their faith rocked back in mind of his tales, his tears.
The baker said, shaking, “You know he deceived us all.” Police queried the man in silence, with his head down. Why?” said one of the officers.
“I just wanted to be good,” he said in his little voice. “I did not want to be the son who failed them.”
His parents had been strict with him, as he was loved. In a fit of anger, he had done something and concealed it in art.
They watched as he was arrested, put in cuffs, and was pale as he went away, his hands cuffed.
A woman broke into heaving sobs. “We had faith in you.” He averted his eyes, which showed guilt, and now his statues are a symbol of betrayal.
His tools were discovered, his notes, and evidence that he had planned an act, hollowing out the statues to conceal his act. He lifted a weak voice.
He said, “I thought I was free, but I brought them with me.”
The town grieved, their flowers withered away, and their affection toward the guy dissipated and was immediately overtaken by the loss of their parents.
The town square was empty months later, the statues were gone, and the ground was bare.
The man was sitting in jail, heavy-hearted, and his art was a lie.
Their hearts, nonetheless, were hard to heal, and their memories of his parents were tenderly sad, and they rebuilt the town.
What had we seen of the truth, thought one of the neighbors in a low voice.
They kept a little commemoration in memory of the parents; they were kind folks.
This action of the man had wounded them all, but their affection for one another increased, a star in the night, a vision of seeing the truth, of treasuring close the things of faithfulness, despite all the hurt he had done.
