Baroomba, cackooo. Baroomba, baroomba, cackoo, allooo. The steady blowing on the shells continued to lull the Chosen One in his delicate sleep. He looks almost like a regular 7-year old in his gentle slumber. I gazed at him with admiring eyes. I must stay focused on the steady beat and don't let my mind wander too much to my memories of the time before they froze him. If I lose the beat and he leaves his frozen, serene prison, I will face a wretched consequence.

I am a Timble. I have 3 ten-hour shifts a week playing the ancient sounds by blowing on the shells. The correct patterns continue the blessing of the Chosen One's slumber. My job elevated me, my immediate family, and my extended family to the 3rd level caste in our nation. The degradation of our lives in the bottom Mud Stone class is almost unspeakable. Yes, it means that I will never marry, embrace my own children, and will live my life as a vegetarian. But these are small prices to pay for the benefit of my family. And of course, to be in the presence of the Chosen One and gaze at his lovely countenance is a blessing.

Life went on like this for almost 53 years. Then the cold, autumn morning came like a bomb. The green glad thugs who want their own youngster to be the Chosen One, broke into our compound, and took our sacred shells and cracked them!

The silence was deadly, deafening, and harsh. The biggest nightmare of all began in front of my eyes. The sweet, angelic Chosen One started to blink his eyes and slowly move his limbs.