The wealthy man smiles, but like a gap in his teeth, or a mother without a child, something is missing.

BY KODA CHRISTENSEN

IMAGE BY CAMEO VENCHIARUTTI

Beautiful tapestries woven with gold shimmer in the sunlight. Jewels sparkle with a million reflecting intricacies. Purple banners flow, the finest silk. Like rolling fields of golden hay, hills of treasure cover the floor like a carpet. 

“A fine collection, your majesty. What will you do with it all?” ask the nobles wearing his wealth on their backs. 

“It will complete me,” the king replies. 

Countless women, as beautiful as Venus, slide over each other. Countless men, as beautiful as Mars, are adorned and put on display. They chant the wealthy man’s name, reaching out for their Sun. Around the dining table, smooth leather chairs comfort his noble companions—his choir of envy—as he sits on a plush red throne. Everyone present wears shoes he bought or jewelry he purchased, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“You all complete me too, of course.” 

The wealthy man smiles, but like a gap in his teeth, or a mother without a child, something is missing. 

  

Later that night, the wealthy man lies alone in bed. 

“What am I missing?” he asks. “I have everything I want, everything I need—what else could possibly complete me?” 

He gets out of bed and stands next to the window. The glass is cold and his fast breath melts frost. He wipes the shroud of fog away to overlook his kingdom. 

Hundreds of people, wandering his streets. Thousands more, tucked inside. They all have far, far less than him. Compared to his riches and wealth, their existence is puny. They will never be as close to completion as he is. 

Still, he grabs his thick royal mantle and stumbles into his boots. He rushes for the door, then glides down the stairs. Maids and butlers give him quizzical looks. They don’t understand; tonight is the night he finds the last piece. 

His royal steed is woken by the weight of a saddle. He rides down snowy trails as knights shout his name and say, “He’s gone mad!” 

The pristine, snow-white horse trots into town, and turned-up dirty slush is splattered to paint brown spots on its coat. Townspeople—his people—stare in awe as their king’s extravagant cape flutters in the crisp wind. They eye his crown, the piece barely hanging onto tousled hair. No guards, no armour, no sense of reason… 

He is defenseless. Filled with greed, the crowd inches closer. They push against the horse’s flanks, causing it to rear up with a strong neigh. The king yelps—he falls off, and lands rear-end in the snow. Blistered palms and dirt-encrusted fingernails reach out for him. 

Then, from the crowd, a man in rags pushes himself to the forefront, shoving townsfolk away. 

“Would you like to come inside for tea?” the poor man asks, shouldering people on either side. The king looks up, squinting as the light of the moon eclipses behind the poor man’s head. 

“Will it complete me?” 

“It will fill you for a moment.” 

“…” 

“Your horse is freezing. I have a stable. Please, follow me.” 

When the king stands, someone knocks his crown off. Like moths to a flame, they pile on top of it, clawing and biting for a piece. 

“That’s not—!” 

“Let it go.” 

The man’s soot-covered hands shove a path back to the horse. The king climbs on while looking back at his lost crown. 

The two men escape to a dirtier part of the kingdom, where buildings are squished and held together with chipped bricks and knotted wood. The “stable” is a tiny shack, hardly big enough for the old, weathered horse already inside. After the king dismounts, they both shimmy the royal steed inside. The horses draw close together, sharing a tender embrace. 

“Let’s get you some tea.” 

Inside, he is greeted by a leaky ceiling. The floor isn’t a mountain of treasure—just a carpet that has been eaten away by moths. Shards of glass from a broken plate have been picked up and stacked on a rag stained red by someone’s careful touch. The king looks down to see fraying bandages on the unfortunate man’s hands, hands that are strong and with forearms that run pumping rivers of veins.  

“Take a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.” 

The wealthy man sits on a wooden chair and it creaks under his weight. It feels like a threat. His own hands are slim and soft except for the callous on his middle finger, a direct result of writing fancy, faraway letters. He is devoid of scars and imperfections, while the faulty man carries them in handfuls. 

“What did you mean by ‘complete’? Don’t you, of all people, have everything you want?” the poor man asks from the fireplace. This man’s face has sunspots like islands, but he is neither old nor young. They are both in their prime, yet that full feeling decides to dance only in the poor man’s eyes. He is smiling—why is he smiling? 

“I’m looking for the thing that will fill my soul. I have everything—riches you will never comprehend. Men and women love me, the people want to be me, and I have endless companions. I can afford to adorn them with rare jewels and house them in my massive castle. I have a whole hall filled with wine older than my grandfather—and a closet larger than the town square. 

“You have nothing compared to me. Your horse has one leg in the grave and my steed makes it look dead already. Your own home is crumbling, and one day, it will come crashing down. That fireplace is more ash than flame and your carpet has withered. Your clothes are tattered, tarnished with the filth of a poor man’s life. You survive, but I live. You will never understand my wondrous life. You clean up shattered pieces and try to save your life’s wreckage but you will never be as close to this feeling as I am. But how could you? You’ve been dealt a hand full of holes. You’ve lost. I truly pity you and these creaky floorboards and the crying ceiling and that moth banging on the windowsill.” 

Instead of replying to his king, the other man goes to the window. Big hands, impossibly gentle, scoop up the desperate, furry moth. He carries it to the door, eyes like watery oceans as he releases the moth and watches it take flight. The fire burns in the king’s eyes. 

“It won’t survive.” 

“Probably not.” 

“It wouldn’t have lived much longer in here either.” 

Water drips onto the earth, creating an intricate, reflective puddle. 

“Why did you release it?” The king continues, standing with a stomp and splashing the puddle apart. 

“Because that’s where it wanted to finish its life. In the sky, where it is free.” 

“I want to die embraced with warmth. That moth is stupid, choosing cold over comfort.” 

“Why do you so strongly hate that which you cannot understand?” 

“I… well—” 

“Do you really have everything you want?” the poor man interrupts. 

“What more could there be to gain?” the king asks, fists clenched at his sides. “Money, pleasure, friends, jewels…” 

“Do you have love?” 

“Of course! Everyone loves me.” The kettle is removed from the fireplace by the other man. He pours the boiling water into two glasses, swirling crushed tea leaves. “And I love my mother and father. I love my kingdom.” 

“Do you love yourself?” He hands him a glass. 

“Of course…” The wealthy man hesitates. He sits back down, and the puddle begins to gather again. “Well… how would I know?” 

“Self-love is not just treating yourself to your desires. It is to be confident, to seek validation from within, to be virtuous, and to know what you truly want.” 

“I have everything I want.” 

“And you still feel incomplete?” 

“Yes!” 

“Well, you should want some dignity and reason. Honestly, the moth is more human than you—” 

“Are you comparing your king to a moth?” 

“—because you are just an animal serving its animalistic desires.” 

“Hey—!” 

“You need people to love you to love yourself. You lack the esteem to consider yourself lovable. You bring others down so you can rise up. Your friends are slimy and they will leave you the second you cannot provide. You surround yourself with material value and gorge on things like gold-flaked salmon because you have no sense of reason.” 

The man pauses his speech to take in the king: a glass of tea in hand, held so tightly. His hands look soft and polished like his perfect boots. The king’s eyes sparkle with hot rage, reflecting the fire. Before the glass in the king’s twitching hands can shatter, the man continues. 

“You must want to be good, do good, spread good, and follow good morals. If you look deeper and inspect the ripples of your mind, you will find true completion.” 

The puddle keeps collecting. The fiery man sips his tea, thinking, trying to grasp words to retaliate. Five minutes pass, maybe more, and he’s still searching. Many more minutes and slowly the fire calms. During silent reflection, time is still. Soon, he’s sipping his last drop of tea. In the puddle, he sees the outside world just beyond the window. It feels easy to open. 

“I must leave.” The king sets the glass down. The discarded tea leaves settle into a wing-shaped silhouette. 

“Good luck on your search.” 

The king walks back through the home and he takes a final look at glass shards lovingly collected, and a carpet that has nourished. He grabs the copper door handle, worn away to appear gold, then opens the door. 

In the stable, his horse has its head turned to rest on the back of the other. He gently wakes them and the horses exchange goodbyes. Before leaving, the man adds his fur coat to the blankets piling the aged horse, covering frost-tipped ears. 

Back on the main road, the crowd has dispersed and only the sound of wind and thumping gallops follow. The snow reflects the rising sun, painting the man in a new light. 

Then, something glistens on the horse’s mane. The man’s soft hands gently scoop up the moth, delicate like glass. Its wings are frosty and delicate, but its desperation has been fulfilled. 

He leaves its body to rest in a bright place under the sun. 

Koda Christensen is a Canadian, London-raised author and poet who explores themes of growth, truth, death, and belonging. In 2023, he won second place in The Humber Literary Review’s Flash Fiction contest. He is currently attending Humber for their creative and professional writing program.

Image: Taking Flight (Cameo Venchiarutti)

Edited for publication by Elle Warr-Addae, as part of the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing Program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.