Part Five: The Bracelet

Eventually, they reached the boy's house. It was a small house, painted white, with a small gate in front. There was a garden with flowers. The house looked well-kept. Lived in.

The man and the boy stood in front of the door.

The man bent his knees and sat down, so his eyes were level with the boy's eyes. They looked at each other.

"Promise me something," the man said. And his voice was very serious now. Not sad, but serious. Like what he was about to say mattered more than anything else.

"What?" the boy asked.

"Promise me that you'll always be the way you are right now," the man said. "Promise me that no matter what happens—no matter if your teammates laugh at you, or your coach yells at you, or your parents fight, or people are mean to you—promise me that you'll never stop laughing at the situation the way you laughed at me falling off that bicycle. Promise me that you'll never lose that."

The boy was listening.

"Promise me that you'll work hard for your dreams," the man continued. "That you'll keep wanting to be the greatest player in the world. That you won't let anyone convince you that you're not good enough."

His voice was shaking slightly now.

"Promise me," the man said, and tears were starting to form in his eyes, "promise me that you'll never become like me. Promise me that you'll never lose the will to live. Promise me that you'll never become a pathetic loser who forgot how to dream. Please. Never be like me."

By now, tears were streaming down his face. His shoulders were shaking.

The boy didn't say anything. He just listened and watched the man cry.

Then the man reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. It was a bracelet. Black pearl, small and delicate. And at the end of it was a small figure of Ganesha, the god of new beginnings and removing obstacles.

The man took the boy's small hand very carefully and put the bracelet in his palm.

"Keep this," the man said. His voice was hoarse. "I want you to keep this. There will be times in your life when you feel very alone. Times when you're in a room full of people and you're still the loneliest person there. Times when you'll lose hope. Times when you'll think that giving up is easier than keeping going."

He was still crying, but he continued.

"In those moments," he said, "I want you to hold this bracelet. Hold it tight. And remember that Ganesha is with you. Remember that I'm with you. Remember that you're never alone. Not really. Not ever."

He lifted the boy's hand and looked at the bracelet in the boy's palm.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

The boy was quiet. Then he asked, "Is this a friendship bracelet?"

The man smiled through his tears. It was a smile of pure love and pain mixed together.

"Yes," he said. "This is a best friend bracelet. It's a promise. From me to you. That I'll always be with you."

The boy didn't say anything else. He just stepped forward and hugged the man. It was a tight hug, the kind that meant something. The kind that said: I understand. I believe you. I will remember.

The man hugged back, and he was overwhelmed with feeling. He felt like he had never truly lived before this moment. He felt like every bad thing that had ever happened to him was worth it, because it had led to this moment. To this hug. To this boy who had just decided that he was his best friend.

The boy pulled away slowly.

"I'm going to go inside now," he said.

"Okay," the man said.

The boy walked to the door and opened it. He looked back at the man once.

"Thank you," the boy said.

"For what?" the man asked.

"For understanding me," the boy said. "For being my friend."

"Thank you for understanding me too," the man said.

The boy nodded and went inside. The man heard the door close.

He stood there for a long moment, looking at the closed door. And he was crying. Not the kind of crying that comes from sadness, but the kind of crying that comes from overwhelming emotion. From gratitude. From a sense of having been given something he didn't know he needed.

And then his vision started to blur. Not because of tears, but because of something else. Something that felt like waking up from a dream. Something that felt like returning to something he'd been away from for a very long time.

His vision cleared completely, and he was lying on a hospital bed.