Matthew Koree Sophiet Facebook ad: “He wasn't fishing for fish, he was fishing…”

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2871700686353193

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Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, Messenger and Threads

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He wasn't fishing for fish, he was fishing for me. साइन अप करें, पाएं ₹500 का खास ऑफर ，अनोखा अनुभव! My father always said there was treasure hidden at the bottom of the lake, (This last part is a separate, unrelated sentence and can be omitted.) Until he dived down and pulled up a drowning child who looked exactly like me. The child opened his eyes and smiled, "Dad, this is your real son." And without hesitation, my father grabbed my neck. The rain began to fall, fine and dense on the dark green lake surface, creating countless rapid ripples. My father stood again on that black rock protruding into the center of the lake, his back hunched, like a withered tree root. His murmurs, almost swallowed by the rain, pierced my ears once more with pinpoint accuracy: "...There's treasure at the bottom of the lake, really, this time it must be..." I'd heard those words for thirty years. From the first time he carried me on his shoulders to this desolate lake nestled among mountains, from the moment his business failed and my mother left, his behavior only intensified. The lake was our prison, and he was the ghost trapped within. But this time, a light I'd never seen burned in his cloudy eyes. Instead of casting his line as usual, he abruptly ripped off his old coat, revealing his thin, wrinkled body, and with a splash, he plunged into the water like a stone. The lake swallowed him. A deathly silence enveloped me, broken only by the rustling of raindrops on the leaves. Time stretched out, my heart pounding in my chest. Splash! The water broke open. My father emerged, staggering ashore. He clutched something tightly in his arms—a heavy, soaking wet bundle. It wasn't a rusty iron box, nor rotten wood. It was a child. Softly slumped in his arms, wet, dark hair clung to his pale forehead, dripping water. The father carefully placed the child on the muddy bank, his movements almost reverent. I froze, my blood seemingly frozen. The child's face—the curve of his eyebrows, the small mole on his nose, the bloodless lips—was unmistakably my eight-year-old self in the mirror! A wave of nausea washed over me. Just then, the child's wet eyelashes fluttered, and he snapped them open. A pair of cold, still eyes, devoid of any childlike innocence. They stared straight at me, piercing the rain, fixed on my face. Then, he grinned, a swollen, stiff smile appearing on his face, his voice soft and crisp, like an icicle piercing the rain: "Dad," he said, looking at his still-breathing father, "this is your real son." The world vanished. I saw my father's body jolt violently, and he slowly, incredibly slowly, turned his head. Those eyes that had looked at me for thirty years looked at me, their murky depths replaced by a new, terrifying fervor and certainty. It was the ecstasy of finding the real thing, and the cold disgust of treating a fake. Without a second's hesitation. He lunged at me. Those large, cold, rough hands, still carrying the stench of the lake and possessing astonishing strength, gripped my neck tightly. The air was instantly cut off. I futilely scratched at the back of his hands, kicking at the muddy water beneath my feet, my vision filled with his twisted, fanatical face, and the cold smile of "me" silently watching from the ground beside him.

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