The drought did not come suddenly… it crept in like a strange shadow, slowly crawling, draining life from everything it touched.
—
At first, it was barely noticeable… almost invisible.
A season with less rain than usual.
A warmer breeze, carrying the taste of dust and ash.
A clear sky… an unsettling blue, with not a single cloud promising mercy.
—
"Just an ordinary year…" some said in ignorance, trying to reassure themselves before being swallowed by anxiety.
But the land was not ordinary.
In the fields, the golden wheat began to lose its color. It no longer swayed with the wind like a living sea; instead, it became dull and dry, as if life were being pulled from it with each passing night under the pale moonlight.
The trees lost their green, and their leaves crumbled between fingers like dry ash.
Yet no one spoke… because fear, when born, is not spoken. It is buried in the chest until it suffocates.
—
Months passed, and the rain vanished completely.
No announcement… no warning… only silence from the sky, as if it had closed its doors forever.
The earth cracked open, revealing deep wounds across its face. The soil hardened like stone, and the river that once gave life slowly receded, exposing a broken muddy bed and the remains of fish that had no escape.
—
"Rain will return soon…" one man said, staring at the sky with hollow, exhausted eyes.
But the sky did not respond.
Fear began to devour hearts. Livestock weakened, ribs showing beneath dry skin. Crops died before reaching maturity, and faces changed… there was no longer talk of tomorrow, only of today's single meal.
—
In distant villages, families began hiding what little wheat remained beneath the ground.
Food was no longer eaten freely… it was measured.
Mothers reduced their portions so children could eat, and children asked about hunger… receiving only broken silence in return.
And men… their silence grew heavier than words.
—
Then came the day when all hope was cut off.
No rain, no crops, no hope in sight.
Fear turned into a living reality, slowly draining life under a merciless sun.
The great migration began.
Endless caravans of exhausted people, dragging their despair, searching for any trace of salvation.
One name echoed everywhere:
"Egypt…"
"There is food… there are endless stores… there is a man who knew what we did not."
—
And so the roads filled with human shadows fleeing death.
But in Egypt, the scene was entirely different.
Granaries sealed tightly, stone walls preserving years of patience and planning. A system running with precise order.
People ate… not in luxury, but in dignity.
And at the heart of it all… was Yusuf.
—
He stood on a high balcony overlooking the granaries.
Dry winds struck the walls, carrying dust that covered everything. No birds, no water, no life… only the silence of wind in a city built on order.
Yusuf looked toward the horizon, where earth meets sky, and said in a heavy calm:
"It has begun…"
—
But what had begun was not only drought… it was a long test of people and hearts that had rusted.
And one day, while he was overseeing the distribution of supplies, a weary caravan entered, covered in the dust of travel.
Their faces showed they had crossed death many times to reach this place.
Time froze in that moment.
Yusuf no longer saw guards or crowds.
He stood still.
Those faces… were not strangers.
Something inside him broke before his mind could understand.
It was them.
His brothers.
—
He saw them exhausted, broken, asking for life from the very man they once tried to discard.
He did not move, but inside him was not stillness… it was a full storm held back by sheer will.
In that moment, I did not see starving men… I saw the shadow of the past rising from the depth of a well that never truly dried.
The scent of damp earth at the bottom of that pit returned suddenly, as if time had never moved.
My hand clenched tightly until my nails dug into my skin.
Pain struck me sharply… but it reminded me of one truth: I was no longer that child.
I looked at them.
Grey hair, broken posture, unfamiliar faces.
How could they recognize "the governor" standing before them as the boy they once threw into darkness?
To them, I am a ruler.
To me… they are the past returning at the worst possible time.
I asked myself in silence:
Should I open the door of mercy… or the door of reckoning?
But I did not let the thought consume me.
I regained my calm.
The granaries I built over seven years of silence taught me one thing: nothing comes without its appointed time.
I signaled the guards to bring them closer.
And I froze my expression… but my eyes were telling the whole story.
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