On the hottest day of the year, the town’s only fan (literally one fan) mysteriously vanished.
The citizens of Tirsa were in an uproar. For years, the small town nestled in a barren valley had only one old fan in the town hall. It was no ordinary fan—it was said to be the legacy of a mad inventor who had managed to create a machine that could blow cool air even in the middle of the burning desert. The fan was guarded like an heirloom, serviced at the beginning of each summer, and only turned on when the temperature passed 40 degrees.
That day, the temperature reached 46 degrees.
Everyone rushed to the town hall to enjoy the cool breeze. But when Mayor Ranu opened the door to the storage room… the fan was gone. There was no sign of a break-in. No drag marks on the floor. Only dust swirled slowly, as if mocking everyone who had come with hope.
Children began to cry. Adults sweated silently. A goat fainted on the side of the road. Even a thermometer broke from the heat.
A massive search began. Police, volunteers, even a group of mothers studying the Koran helped comb the entire city. Nothing came of it.
However, a child named Rafi, a 12-year-old boy who loved reading detective comics, felt something was odd. He noticed that Mr. Seno, the city hall janitor, seemed to be sweating more than usual, and walking a little hurriedly towards the hills behind the city. With a high curiosity and a bottle of drinking water in hand, Rafi stalked him secretly.
Behind a large rock covered in bushes, Rafi found a small cave—and inside, stood the fan, turning on slowly with a cool breeze flowing out of the cave mouth.
Mr. Seno sat nearby, enjoying the breeze while eating watermelon.
“Sir… this is… stealing!” Rafi exclaimed.
Mr. Seno was shocked. “Not stealing, Rafi… this is rescue. The city hall is full of politics! This fan is used for official parties, not for the people. I just want to feel it for a moment without having to use a permit!”
After a long conversation and a watermelon being shared in half, Rafi proposed an idea: the fan could be moved to the center of the square and lit for everyone, not just at the town hall.
Finally, with the help of residents who were already in god-like heat, the fan was brought back down. Pak Seno apologized in public. The mayor, also hot on his heels, forgave with a condition: starting that year, the city's heritage fans would belong to all, not a select few.
Since then, every summer, citizens have gathered in the square—playing, singing, and fanning themselves—under the breeze of old machines once lost for the sake of justice and cold watermelons.