The Mall of Truth

I stepped into the mall, my heart soaring with gratitude for my new job. This was my chance to prove myself as a super salesman, to climb the career ladder with both hands. The gleaming lights and polished floors promised opportunity, but an eerie chill lingered, one I pushed aside, determined to seize the moment.

My supervisor guided me through the bustling aisles, where shelves displayed “character and virtue gifts.” The phrase puzzled me—what could it mean? I was ready to sell anything, even oxygen to someone breathing freely, but this place felt strange.

In Section A, the air buzzed with urgency. Shoppers swarmed, snatching vials labeled “lies,” “deception,” and “backstabbing” off the shelves. The products, marked with short expiration dates, flew out faster than we could restock. No sales pitch was needed—these items sold themselves. I watched, baffled, as customers rushed to pay and dashed out, as if chasing something or being chased in return.

“Why am I here?” I asked my supervisor, half-joking. “This section doesn’t need me.” He chuckled, his eyes glinting. “You’re not here for this. Follow me to Section B.”

We entered Section B, and the contrast was stark. The aisles were nearly empty, the shelves holding a single product: vials labeled “truth.” Cheap, almost free, with a lifetime warranty, they sat untouched, gathering dust. A few curious browsers lingered, but no one bought. My salesman instincts bristled—this would be a challenge, but I wasn’t one to back down.

An elderly cleaner, wiping down the shelves, caught my eye. I picked up a vial of truth and turned to him. “Why not bundle this with other products, like in Section A?” I asked.

He smiled, his eyes kind but sharp. “Truth stands alone. It’s enough on its own, unlike those fleeting concoctions over there.”

I pressed further. “Why not limit the warranty? Get people coming back for more?”

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Truth isn’t manufactured. It’s eternal, not some man-made trick you can tweak or break.”

I leaned in, undeterred. “What about a big marketing push? Draw a crowd?”

“Truth doesn’t beg for attention,” he said, his voice steady. “It waits for those who seek it. The lies in Section A? They dazzle, deliver quick results, but fade fast. People keep buying them, chasing new combinations when they fail. Truth’s results are slow but unshakable. Few choose it, but those who do never need more.”

His words sank in, stirring something deep. I stood there, vial in hand, as the supervisor’s voice broke through. “Impressed?” he asked. “Ready to start?”

I stared at the dusty shelves, the cleaner’s wisdom echoing in my mind. Truth wasn’t a product to hawk—it was a choice, a quiet force that didn’t compete with the flash of lies. I shook my head, a resolve settling in. “No,” I said softly, turning toward the exit. “This isn’t for me.”

As I walked away, I felt no defeat, only clarity. Truth didn’t need my sales pitch. It would always be there, waiting for those ready to find it, its steady power outlasting every fleeting deception. In a world chasing instant fixes, truth was the one thing that endured, unyielding and free.