The young man, restless and brimming with dreams of adventure, drums his fingers impatiently against the wooden table. The scent of baking bread floats in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dew from the still-damp fields outside. Across from him, his father watches quietly, his hands weathered from years of hard work yet gentle in their patience.
"Father, give me my share of the inheritance now. I want to see the world, to make something of myself beyond these fields."
"Are you sure, son? The world is wide, but not always kind,"
"I know what I want. Please, trust me."
The young man throws himself into the city's excitement, his pockets deep with coins. He dances under chandeliers, clinks glasses with new friends, and never spends a night alone. The nights blur together in a haze of revelry—wine flows, laughter rings, and the weight of responsibility fades with each passing dawn.
"Another round for everyone! Life is meant to be lived at full speed," he declares, surrounded by admirers who cheer and raise their glasses.
The young man searches his pockets, finding only a few coins and a crumpled handkerchief. The faces that once smiled at him now pass by without a glance. Hunger gnaws at his belly, and the warmth of friendship has vanished, leaving him with the bitter chill of regret.
"How did it come to this? I thought the world would be mine," he whispers to himself, rain mingling with his silent tears.
The young man wipes sweat from his brow, the stench of animals clinging to his skin. The only food he tastes now is what he shares with the pigs—dry, flavorless husks that barely fill his stomach. He gazes at the horizon, thoughts drifting to home, to warmth, to the kindness he once took for granted.
"Even my father's servants eat better than this," he mutters, desperation sharpening his resolve. "Maybe... maybe he'll take me back. Not as a son, but as a servant."
The young man shuffles forward, each step heavy with shame and hope. Far ahead, his father stands at the edge of the field, eyes scanning the horizon. Suddenly, he spots the weary figure and, heart pounding, sprints down the path, dust rising behind him.
"My son! My son has come home!" he cries, arms outstretched.
The father wraps his son in a fierce embrace, tears streaming down his face, joy overwhelming any lingering hurt. Servants rush to bring robes, a ring, and sandals, dressing the young man in signs of love and belonging. Tables overflow with food, and the air hums with celebration.
"Bring the finest robe! Prepare a feast! For my son was lost, and now he is found," he proclaims, voice trembling with happiness. The young man looks around, gratitude shining in his eyes as he realizes he was never truly forgotten—and that he can always come home.