My mind wrestles with the question—who are these spirits that murmur and disturb the night, making sleep impossible, filling me with fear as if they were evil apparitions?
Every day, I ask my mother if she hears whispers in the dead of night or early morning.
But she says she does not. My father says the same.
I begin to wonder—am I the only one who can hear the voices of unseen spirits, speaking a language only I can understand?
I often observe my parents’ knees when they rest—wrinkled, darkened, and hardened with age.
My thoughts question—why do my knees not look like theirs? Why do they not resemble those of others? WHY?
At times, people glance at me strangely, as if sensing something unusual, and in those moments, I feel a deep unease.
As I grow older, the whispers in the midnight hours do not fade.
One day, while tidying our home, I stumbled upon a stack of papers hidden beneath my parents’ bed.
The words written on them read:
“THIS WAS THE DAY OUR SON DISOBEYED US.”
Not only that—there were also lines that seemed like an apology, a plea.
My mind returned to the echoes of sorrowful whispers that haunted the nights, and I tried to make sense of the meaning behind these papers.
I resolved that I would not sleep that night—I would find out where these voices came from.
It was past midnight. The house was silent. Everyone was asleep—except me.
Then, the murmurs returned.
I stood up without fear, walked outside, feeling the cold against my thin and worn-out blanket.
To my shock, my parents insisted they had never heard these voices.
Yet I could hear them so clearly.
The whispers were coming from their small prayer hut.
I stepped closer, and what I saw shook me to my core.
In the dim light, my parents were kneeling on the hard stone floor of their prayer hut, whispering softly.
Though I could not make out all their words, I could hear my name in their pleading prayers.
I moved nearer and knelt beside them, and then it became clear—my careless actions, my disobedience, the things I took lightly each day, weighed heavily on them.
They carried my burdens as their own, kneeling on cold stones, pleading with God to protect me from harm.
Now I understand.
They feared that my wrongdoings would bring misfortune upon me.
They did not care about the pain of kneeling on rough stones, nor about the cold, exhaustion, or sleepless nights.
All that mattered was whispering my name to the One who created me, seeking mercy for the son who did not realize his own faults.
Now I know why I have been blessed despite my mistakes.
There were weary knees whispering, whispering for me in the darkness.
A parent’s prayer is powerful—a plea filled with tears, a prayer for protection, a prayer that breaks the chains of misfortune before they reach their child.
And now, I see it clearly—the more I strayed, the more I disrespected my parents’ weary knees.
