There once was a vast kingdom known as Hollowland. The people of this land were clever, proud, and endlessly skeptical. In Hollowland, children were taught from an early age that there was no such thing as real gold. They had all seen the cheap trinkets peddled in the markets—painted brass, plastic dipped in glitter. These were called “gold,” but they chipped and flaked in the rain. So the people said, “Gold is a myth. A tale told to gullible children.”
Likewise, they scoffed at the idea of real money. Every coin and note in their land was counterfeit—printed by charlatans, forged by rebels, passed around like carnival tokens. None held any value. So they laughed at the old stories of trade, of wealth, of stored labor and value. “Money is just a game,” they said. “A trick for fools.”
They even doubted love. All they had known were transactional flings, dry contracts, and sugar-coated lies. So when poets spoke of devotion, of fidelity, of the fire that binds soul to soul, the people rolled their eyes and muttered, “Love is fiction. A performance for those who can’t handle solitude.”
So it went with wisdom, virtue, beauty, and God. Each idea, once sacred, had been counterfeited, repackaged, and sold as entertainment, leverage, or illusion. And so the people of Hollowland declared:
“Nothing is real except what we can mock.”
Now, far beyond Hollowland was a solitary mountain, and on that mountain lived an old man. He was quiet, unadorned, and unknown to most. His vault held pure gold, gleaming with a depth that no paint could mimic. He owned a single coin—not minted by fraud, but by a kingdom that no longer existed. It was heavy with real value. He had known real love. And though she had passed many winters ago, he still lit a candle for her each night, because love never dies in hearts that have truly known it.
One day, a wanderer from Hollowland stumbled onto the mountain and met the old man. The wanderer was clever, sharp, and full of disdain.
“Old man,” he sneered, “You still believe in gold? In money? In love?”
The old man said nothing. He simply handed the wanderer the coin.
The wanderer weighed it in his hand. It was heavier than he imagined. He scratched it, bit it, sniffed it. It didn’t flake. It didn’t bend. It didn’t lie.
“What is this?” he whispered.
“Real,” the old man said.
The wanderer looked up, and for the first time in his life, he doubted his doubt.
And from that moment on, the world began to change. Not because everyone suddenly believed, but because one man did—and he carried truth back into a land of fakes.
