Imprint of Existence

It was a moonlit night. Stars were scattered across the sky, as though the cosmos had adorned itself with a necklace of dreaming pearls. On the earth below, the breeze whispered, and a stream softly repeated an ancient melody.

In a desolate room, a faint beam of light seeped through the wooden window’s crack. On the floor sat an old man, holding a piece of paper. On it was the inked imprint of a hand, etched as if it held the story of his fate. His eyes harbored questions—ancient questions, unanswered even after centuries.

In a hushed tone, he muttered to himself,
“This hand… this mark… is it the tale of my destiny?”

The old man placed his fingers over the imprint and drifted into the corridors of his past. His mind peered through the dust of time—a young boy, a fresh dream, and a cosmos held in his hands.

Flowing with the ocean of time, he pondered:
“Is our existence more than this handprint? Are the marks we leave behind our only legacy? Or perhaps it’s the story behind these marks that matters most?”

The handprint—the symbol left by every person through their actions. Some imprints are carved into rocks, enduring for centuries. Others are washed away by rain or dissolve into the wind. Yet, every mark, every step left behind, tells its own story.

The old man rose and stood before a mirror in the corner of the room. He examined his hands closely. Scars etched deeply into his skin, veins protruding, and the intricate web of lines on his palms. He whispered to himself:
“These hands are the foundation of life. They’ve created, destroyed, touched love, suppressed hatred, sculpted dreams, and experienced the darkest truths of reality. Yet, we forget that within these hands lies the universe’s greatest secret.”

Dreams, love, failure, and success—all are inscribed upon the palm. But the question remained: why do these marks endure?

The imprint of existence—that was the lesson life had taught him. The imprint of being never fades. It lingers somewhere, in some moment. A smile, an act of kindness, a loving touch—all these are marks that exist eternally.

Speaking as if addressing the wind, he said,
“These hands are the scribes of destiny. If we grant them peace, love, and the power of creation, they will leave behind a fragrance upon the earth. But if we inflict them with cruelty and sow seeds of hatred, they will turn to ashes.”

The murmurs of the stream seemed to nod in agreement. The cosmos, too, appeared to affirm his revelation. He looked again at the paper.
“What does this mark tell me? That I exist… that I am. Even when I’m gone, my essence will linger in some imprint—perhaps in a memory, a wound, or a fleeting moment of love.”

The old man pressed his hands to his chest and gazed out the window. The night had deepened, but a lantern of light now burned in his eyes. He had understood the greatest truth of existence:
The imprint of being.

Every person, every touch, every thought leaves behind a mark. These marks are never truly erased. They can be the final cry of our existence, or the last prayer of love.

Folding the paper, he slipped it into the pocket of his worn coat. He cast one last glance at the sky and gazed at the moon, as though receiving the answer to his smile.

The night cradled itself in sleep, and the breeze lulled the stream’s song into slumber. But the old man knew that as long as these imprints endure, the journey of existence is far from over.