When I was younger, my father told me this story. It was about a boy who grew up with his family on a farm.

One day, the boy came home from playing in the fields to find that his parents were gone. He searched their farm, and he asked in the town, but his parents had not been seen. The boy went home and sat down at the table. He sat for a long while. He traced the cracks in the table, slowly drawing his finger across the cold wood. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He did not do anything for fear of missing something vitally important that would bring his family home. Then, after some time, the boy got up and, with a final look back at the house, set out into the world.

That is as far as the story got, and at that point, my father got very quiet. Finally, I could not stand the silence any longer, and I asked what happened had next. Where did the boy go? Did he find his family? He looked down at me and placed his hand over mine.