My name is Alexander. I am twelve years old now. Two years ago, I discovered a photograph—not just a faded image, but a fragment of truth that slowly began to reshape the path of my life. In that photograph, my father stood tall, adorned in royal robes. A king. Though he had long passed, his status did not die with him. He remained a king. And so, a question echoed endlessly in my mind: "Where is my kingdom? Shouldn't that legacy belong to me?"
Each day, my mind swirled with question after question, turning like the wheel of fate. I lived in solitude, with an empty stomach and hope nearly extinguished. My mother's possessions—the last remnants of what I owned—had to be traded, piece by piece, for a morsel of food.
One day, my steps led me to a small sheep farm at the edge of the village. Every morning, it was bustling. Fat sheep came and went, and from them flowed no small amount of profit. An idea began to grow in my head, quiet at first, like a spark that steadily caught fire.
Back home, only one valuable item remained—an enormous antique, proudly displayed in the main room, the last treasure of my mother. I returned to the farm and invited its owner, a kind old man, to come and see it.
"Hey, are you sure this is alright?" he asked, eyes widening at the sight of the artifact.
I nodded firmly. "Of course, sir. All I want is two sheep. This item will be yours in exchange."
He hesitated. "Where's your mother, huh? Hasn't she returned yet? This isn't something to take lightly, boy."
I tugged at his trousers, trying to persuade him with a voice as gentle as the evening breeze. "Please, sir. Mother would want this too. She knows I want to live."
But he shook his head firmly. "No. We have to wait for your mother's return."
I sighed and played my final card. "Are you really sure you don't want this item? It's worth far more than your two sheep…"
He fell silent. The whisper of profit slowly slipped into his thoughts. At last, he exhaled deeply and gave in. "Alright. But let your mother know, so this trade can be properly settled."
I beamed with a wide smile, embraced him tightly—perhaps the first hug I'd given in a long time. With a light step, I went to collect my two sheep. Now, a new task awaited me: building a farm of my own.
The next day, I searched through the village trash heap. Old wood, rotting planks—I gathered them all. I didn't care about age or exhaustion. Based on my observations of the old man's farm, I began to build. But on the first attempt, everything collapsed—my pen fell apart, and my sheep nearly escaped.
But to me, that was not the end. It was merely the first stone on the long road called courage.