A/N - Moral or no? You decide. I'm merely the writer, not the theologist. Please note that this is not meant to be an excersise in characterization. The characters themselves appear only once, then they are gone. These are short stories - they are not meant to show the characters, rather, they are meant to show the journey of one small cloth square.

“Please, kind sir,” the ragged beggar before him rasped, “Spare me some rice, that my wife and children might eat!”

The former mender of pots studied him carefully. The weaver had told him to give the dream to the first stranger he met. This beggar was the first. Surely she could not have foreseen his coming! He felt almost sure that he was not meant to give it to the wretched man who stood before him, begging for food - but then again, perhaps he was.

He frowned, perplexed by this strange twist fate seemed to have taken, and rummaged around in his pocket, finally extracting the small cloth square that was the dream. He held it before the beggar’s outstretched hands.

“I cannot give you rice, my friend,” he said, trying to make his voice sound saddened, “but I can give you a dream.”

“A dream?” The beggar asked, distraught, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Dreams are all well and fair, sir, but they cannot feed you, cannot clothe you, cannot warm you when you are cold. Dreams cannot be sold and bought - no man can hold a dream in his hand.”

The former mender turned potter smiled as he dropped the cloth into the man’s hand. “No, dreams cannot be sold and bought - at least not by those that seek to buy them. They can, however, be given freely. Take this dream and let it bring you happiness, lest you find yourself wishing that it was not I you had met.” He added, as an afterthought, “When you are done with your dream, pass it on to the first stranger you meet, that it may touch their life in the way it has touched mine - and will touch yours.”

More than slightly disappointed at the seeming lack of compassion that he had been shown, the beggar thanked the potter, and continued down the road with heavy feet, not to stop until late that night, when his feet could carry him no further.

Collapsing beneath a tree, the beggar felt a sob catch in this throat as he lay down his head to rest. He had failed; had wandered too far without finding food. Now it was too late to return home - his wife would be worried, and his children would go to bed with the gnawing pain of hunger in their bellies. Never mind that home was the empty shell of a house that had burnt to the ground years before and never been rebuilt. Never mind that his wife and children were dressed in rags without even so much as a stick of wood to burn for the warmth. Home was home, be it a rich man’s mansion or a doorway in the city where the owner permitted the poor to sleep. Home was where he belonged.

Delirious with hunger and exhaustion, the beggar felt himself slipping into a dreamlike state.

He was in a lotus pond, the blooms surrounding him like a bank of snow. Standing before him in a long line was a long line of people, waiting, he sensed, for him to judge them. He considered them carefully, then beckoned for one to come forth. A man, dressed in rags. A beggar, one that could have been a mirror image of himself.

He found himself asking, “What were you in life?”

The man sank to his knees and bent forward, the top of his head nearly touching the ground. “I was a poor man, sir. A beggar if you will.” He whispered, fear evident in his voice.

“What have you done worthy of entry?”

“I - I made sure that I always kept my family fed, even if it meant I had to go hungry. When I met someone that was in a worse situation than I, I surrendered all that I had to help them, even if it meant going forth dressed in rags. I did not live a life of honor, sir, but at least I lived a life full of good.” The poor man said timidly, head still bowed.

He thought for a moment of what should become of the beggar, then decided. “I myself was a beggar once, wandering even as you do now. Go in - enter. And may you find your peace there.”

“Thank you, sir. May fortune shower you, may luck favor you, may you become rich yourself, yet still retain your compassion!” Cried the beggar as he was led into Paradise.

He awoke to find himself still beneath the tree where he had fallen asleep the night before. It was now dawn, and he was still far from home. Seemingly nothing had changed. But - wait. There was something different. At the base of a tree was a sack, full of rice. Attached to the burlap cloth was a note he could only just make out.

“I thought you might need this more than I do. Please, take it and consider it a gift. Signed, a friend.”

He did not bother to consider where the rice had come from, or even if it was safe to take - instead, he fell to his knees and began to give thanks for what good fortune had befallen him. As he rose from his kneeling position, his foot hit into the sack of rice and knocked it over, spilling every grain onto the dirt beneath the tree.

Angry that such a thing could happen, that fate could trick him in such a way, he began to pick up the grains of rice, knowing that he would never be able to fill the sack.

It was then that he noticed. Among the grains of rice that still half-filled the sack, there was a glint of gold. Coins. Amazed, he threw away the remaining handfuls of rice to find what lay beneath them. Coins. The sack was half full of coins.

It was then that he remembered his dream, and the judgement he had passed on the poor beggar. “May fortune shower you, may luck favor you, may be become rich yourself, yet still retain your compassion.” He had been told. A blessing. He had been blessed.

Rejoicing in his new-found wealth, and knowing that if he spent his money wisely he would not want for the rest of his days, the beggar continued down the road, only stopping once, to pass the dream on to the first stranger he met. A rich man riding in a litter carried by servants.