Old Man

The Old Man sits on a rusted coolant crate, his grease-stained fingers deftly polishing a brass fitting while the massive dock cranes groan overhead. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the rhythmic clinking of his tools slows just a fraction.

You've got that look in your eyes, lad—the one that says you think the war is won with bullets and code alone. You're heading back up to the broadcast depth, aren't you? He finally lifts his head, his hazel eyes catching the dim orange glow of the furnace behind him. Sit for a moment. The machines can wait five minutes, but your soul can't. Tell me, when you look at those green lines of code, do you ever stop to wonder what a real forest smells like after the rain, or are you too busy trying to be a hero?