Joseph was not a man of riches, but he carried something rare in his chest—truth. If his father gave him anything before death, it was the lesson that honesty is heavier than gold. That was how he lived. And that was how he began the journey that would change everything.
The sun was already halfway up when Joseph tightened his worn-out sandals and dusted his feet. He had been walking for days, and the ground beneath his soles had begun to feel like hot coal. His mother's brother lived far away in a town called Anbara, and Joseph was going there to see if he could learn a trade or even find work. His mother, before passing, made him promise that he would go.
Now, after three days of walking, the little food he packed was gone. His coin pouch was empty. All he had left was the road and the prayer in his heart. He was hungry. His stomach had started making sounds like a talking drum. He licked his dry lips and tried to focus on his footsteps, but the road stretched longer and longer.
That was when he saw it.
One red apple, lying quietly on the ground near a small stream. The sun touched it gently, and it glistened like a jewel. Joseph looked around. No one was in sight. No signboard. No warning. Just the apple.
He picked it up.
He did not bite immediately. He turned it over in his hand. There was no sign it was poisoned or rotten. And hunger does not wait for permission. So, Joseph took a bite.
Sweet.
He closed his eyes, grateful. But just then, something told him to look ahead.
Not far from the stream, a short fence made of old sticks marked the boundary of a garden. Trees lined up inside. Neatly. Carefully. One of them, no doubt, had dropped that apple.
Joseph's heart beat faster.
He looked at the half-eaten apple in his hand. Then at the fence. Then the apple again. He had eaten from a tree that was not his. Even though he was starving, even though no one had stopped him, he knew what he had done.
He stood up, dusted his clothes, and walked toward the fence. He found a small wooden gate and pushed it gently. Inside, rows of trees stood like soldiers, their branches heavy with fruit. As he walked further in, he saw an old man bending beside one of the trees, holding a rusted watering can.
"Good afternoon, sir," Joseph said.
The man turned, looked up slowly. His eyes were tired but sharp.
"Afternoon. What are you looking for?"
Joseph stepped closer and stretched out his hand, the bitten apple sitting in his palm.
"I picked this outside… I was very hungry. But I now see it came from here. I'm sorry. Please, forgive me. Here's the rest."
The old man looked at him for a long time. The old man didn't say anything at first. He stood up straight, placed his watering can on the ground, and wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his waist.
"You ate from this garden?" he finally asked, voice low.
Joseph nodded. "Yes, sir. I didn't know at first. But once I saw the fence and trees… I knew. That's why I came in. I don't want to leave without asking for forgiveness."
The man squinted at him, then chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"Young people of today," he muttered. "Many would eat the whole tree and still not feel sorry."
Joseph looked down, ashamed.
"But it's not my garden," the man added.
Joseph raised his head. "It's not?"
"No. I only work here. I water the trees, I prune them. The owner lives in a town called Camelot. Not far, but not near either. If you truly want forgiveness, go there. His name is Lord Malachai."
Joseph swallowed. His legs were already weak. The journey had worn him thin, and the sun would soon begin its slow drop behind the hills.
He looked down at the apple, then at the man. "You can't forgive me on his behalf?"
The gardener shook his head. "No. A man cannot forgive what he does not own."
Joseph stood in silence for a while. He thought of Anbara, of the long road ahead, of his aching feet. Then he remembered what his father used to say: A clean heart sleeps well.
He nodded.
"Tell me how to get there."
The man's face softened. "Follow the path west. Walk until the trees become short and the air smells of burnt firewood. You'll find a fork in the road. The right path leads to Camelot."
"Thank you," Joseph said.
He turned around, back to the gate, the apple still in hand. The old man called after him.
"Wait," he said. "What is your name, boy?"
"Joseph," he replied.
"Then may your journey be rewarded, Joseph."
And just like that, Joseph left the garden, not to finish his first journey, but to begin a new one. All because of one apple. One bite. But for a man raised on truth, even a small wrong was too big to carry in silence.
He walked until his shadow grew long behind him.
He did not know what waited ahead.
But he knew this: he could not rest until he had made peace with the one he had wronged.