The old man sat on his porch, rocking gently. He watched the neighbor boy dash across the street, shouting to a friend. “You know,” he said to me, “folks don’t listen much anymore.” I waited, sensing more to come. “They’re all wrapped up in their own stories,” he continued. “Can’t hear past ’em.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at me. “But you, you’re different. You’ve got curious ears.” I smiled, unsure what he meant. “Curious ears,” he repeated. “They don’t just hear words. They reach for the truth hiding behind ’em.” He paused, considering. “It’s not always easy. Sometimes the truth bites. But it’s worth it.” The neighbor boy laughed, a clear sound cutting through the evening air. “That’s the thing about honest talk,” the old man said softly. “It lets two souls touch, just for a moment.” He fell silent then, and we sat, listening to the crickets begin their nightly song.