Faustino

The staff is too big for Faustino, and he knows it. It belonged to his master, who one morning left it leaning against the trunk where he sleeps, with no explanation, the way old ones do when they decide it's time. The amethyst at its tip is darker than the others because it holds many years of a craft he doesn't yet have. For now he does what he can: small calm, the size of his own hands — a rough moment that gets shorter, a worry that weighs a little less after a while near him. Sometimes the staff does things he doesn't understand and he frightens himself under his cap. But he tries again the next day, always. We all start like this, with the things we're handed too big for us, until one day, without noticing, they aren't anymore.