The Hardworking Hands

The sun burned hot over the dry fields of Henan. Old Li wiped the sweat from his forehead with a rough hand. His feet sank into the cracked earth as he walked. If hard work brings good luck, he wondered, why are we still so poor?
Next to him, his wife sighed as she looked at the dying wheat. "Even if the crops grow, the buyers pay so little," she said quietly. "We work all day, but we can barely feed ourselves."
In the distance, they could hear people laughing—city workers enjoying their Labor Day holiday. The smell of barbecue made Old Li’s stomach growl. He thought about his son, who had left for the city last year. "Farming is too hard for too little," his son had said. "In the factory, at least I get paid every month."
As the sun began to set, Old Li knelt and touched the dry soil. Just then, a drop of rain fell on his arm. Then another. Soon, light rain began to water the fields. His wife smiled for the first time in weeks.
But Old Li’s happiness didn’t last. The rain would help the crops, but it wouldn’t change the low prices. It wouldn’t bring his son back. It wouldn’t fix the unfair system that kept farmers poor no matter how hard they worked.
He stood up slowly, his knees aching. The rain was a small gift, but he knew—some problems were too big for rain to wash away.